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144 


K- 

Xovcirs Unternational Seriee 


50 Cent 


Brooke’s Daughter 


BY 


ADELINE SERGEANT 


Author OF “The Luck of the House, “A Life Sentence,’* Etc., Etc 


Authori^^ed Edition 


NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

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Issued Weekly. Annual Subscription, $X5.oo. January 5, 1891. 
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Miss Eyon op Eton Court. 


31. 

That Other Woman. Annie 



Katliorinfi S IMaoqnoid 

30 


Thonuis 

39 

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Hartas Maturin. * H. F. 


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Sargeant 

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C. 

Under False Pretences. 



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Adeline Sergeant 

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In Exchange for a Soul. 


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On Circumstantial Evidence 


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Mrs. Bob. John S. Winter. . 

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Was Ever Woman in this 


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Com ei) y of a (Country House. 



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Thk Piccadilly Puzzle. 



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The Kilburns. A. Thomas. 

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CONTINUED ON THIRD PAGE OF COVER. 


BROOKE’S DAUGHTER 



Xovcll’s Ifnternatlonat Scdcs, Ifto. t44 


BROOKE’S DAUGHTER 


BY. 


ADELINE SERGEANT 


AUTHOR OF 


*‘THE LUCK OF THE HOUSE/* ‘‘ A LIFE SENTENCE,’* ETC., ETC. 


ifO 


^uthori^ed Edition 



NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION PLACE 


(?6 - 6 -^ 5'3 



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, ’ai’ 


Copyright, xSgi, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. 









BROOKE’S DAUGHTER 


CHAPTER I. 

THE END OF HER CHILDHOOD. 

The Convent of the Annonciades, situated in a secluded 
spot on the outskirts of Paris, has long been well reputed 
as an educational establishment for young ladies of good 
family. The sisters themselves are women of refin^ement 
and cultivation, and the antecedents of every piipil received 
by them are most carefully inquired into : so carefully, in- 
deed, that admission to the Convent School is looked on 
almost as a certificate of noble birth and unimpeachable 
orthodoxy. The Ladies of the Annonciades have indeed 
lately relaxed their rules, so far as to receive as parlor- 
boarders some very rich American girls and the children 
of a Protestant English marquis ; but wealth in the first 
instance, and birth in the second, counterbalance the ob- 
jections that might be raised to their origin or their faith. 
These exceptions to the rule are, however, few and far 
between ; and, in spite of the levelling tendencies of our 
democratic days, Annonciades Convent is still one of the 
most exclusive and aristocratic establishments of the kind 
in Europe. 

Although we know too well that small-minded jealousy, 
strife, and bickering must exist in a community of women 
cut off so entirely from the outer world as in this Convent 
of the Annonciades, it must be confessed that the very 
name and air of the place possess a certain romantic charm. 
The house is old, turreted like a chateau, overgrown with 
clematis and passion-flower. The grounds, enclosed by 
high mossy walls, are of great extent, and beautifully laid 


6 


BROOKE'S DAUGH7ER. 


out. The long chestnut avenue, the sparkling fountains, 
the trim flower-beds, are the delight of the sisters' hearts. 
The green beauty of the garden, and the grey stones of the 
ancient building, form a charming background for the white- 
veiled women who glide with noiseless footsteps along the 
cloisters or the avenue : a background more becoming to 
them even than to the bevy of girls in their everyday grey 
frocks, or their Sunday garb of white and blue. For the 
sisters’ quaint and graceful dress harmonizes with the 
antique surroundings of building and ornament as anything 
younger and more modern fails to do. 

These women — shut off from the world, and knowing 
little of its joys or sorrows — have a strangely tranquil air. 
With some the tranquility verges on childishness. One 
feels that they have not conquered the world, they have 
but escaped it ; and, as one pities the soldier who flies the 
battle, so one mourns for the want of courage which has 
condemned these women to an inglorious peace. But here 
and there another kind of face is to be seen. Here and 
there we come across a countenance bearing the tragic 
impress of toil and grief and passion ; and we feel it pos- 
sible that in this haven alone perhaps could a nature which 
had striven and suffered so greatly find in the end a lasting 
place. But such faces are fortunately few and far between. 

From the wide low window of the great salle (T etude a 
flight of steps with carved stone balustrades led into the 
garden. The balustrades were half-covered with clustering 
white roses and purple clematis on the day of which I write ; 
and a breath of perfume, almost overpowering in its sweet- 
ness, was wafted every now and then from the beds of 
mignonette and lilies on either side. The brilliant sunshine 
of an early September day was not yet touched with the 
melancholy of autumn : the leaves of the Virginia creeper 
had not yet changed to scarlet, nor had the chestnuts yel- 
lowed as if winter was creeping on apace. Everything was 
still, warm and bright. 

The stillness was partly accounted for by the fact that 
most of the pupils had gone home for their summer holi- 
days. The salle d etude was empty and a little desolate ; 
no hum of busy voices came from its open window to the 
garden ; and even the tranquil sisters seemed to miss the 
sound, and to look wistfully at the bare desks and unused 
benches of their schoolroom. For they loved their pupils 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


and their work ; both came, perhaps, as a welcome break 
in the monotony of their barren lives ; and they were 
sorry when the day came for their scholars to leave 
them for a time. Still more did they grieve when the 
inevitable day of a final departure arrived. They knew — 
some by hearsay, some by experience, and some by instinct 
alone — that the going away from school into the world was 
the beginning of a new life, full, very often, of danger and 
temptation, in which the good sisters and their teaching 
were likely to be forgotten, and it was a sorrow to them to 
be henceforth dissociated from the thoughts and lives of 
those who had often been under their guardianship and 
tuition for many years. Such a parting — probably a final 
one — was now imminent, and not a few of the sisters were 
troubled by the prospect, although it was against their rule 
to let any sign of such grief appear. 

It was not the hour of recreation, but the ordinary rou- 
tine of the establishment was for a little while suspended, 
partly because it was holiday-time, and partly because an 
unusual event was coming to pass. One of the parlor 
boarders, who had been with the sisters since her child- 
hood, first as a boarder and then as a guest, was about to 
leave them. She was to be fetched away by her mother 
and her mother's father, who was an English milord, of 
fabulous wealth and distinction, and, although at present a 
heretic, exceedingly ‘‘ well-disposed towards the Catho- 
lic church. It was not often that a gentleman set foot 
within the precincts of the convent ; and although he would 
not be allowed to penetrate farther than the parlor, the 
very fact of his presence sent a thrill of excitement through 
the house. An English milord, a heretic, the grandfather 
of cette chere Lisa,’^ whom they were to loose so soon ! 
No wonder the most placid of the nuns, the most stolid of 
the lay-sisters, tingled with excitement to the finger-tips ! 

The girl whose departure from the convent school was 
thus regretted was known amongst her English friends as 
Lesley Brooke. French lips, unaccustomed to a name like 
Lesley, had changed it into Lisa ; but Lesley loved her 
own name, which was a heritage in her family, and had 
been handed down to her from her grandmother. She was 
always glad to hear it from friendly English lips. She was 
nineteen now, and had stayed with the sisters an unusually 
long time without exactly knowing why. Family circuin^ 


8 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


stances, she was told, had hitherto prevented her mother 
from taking her to an English home. But now the current 
of her life was to be changed. She was to leave Paris : she 
was, she believed, even to leave France. Her mother had 
written that she was to go to London, and that she (Lady 
Alice Brooke) would come for her, in company with Les- 
ley’s grandfather, Lord Courtleroy, with whom she had 
been traveling abroad for some time past. 

Lesley was overjoyed by the news. She had lately come 
to suspect something strange, something abnormal, in her 
own position. She had remained at school when other 
girls went to their homes : slie never had been able to am 
swer questions respecting her relations and their belongings. 
Her mother, indeed, she knew ; for she sometimes spent a 
portion of the holidays with Lady Alice at a quiet watering- 
place in France or Italy. And her mother was all that 
could be desired. Gentle, refined, beautiful, with a slight 
shade of melancholy which only made her delicate face 
more attractive — at least in Lesley’s eyes — Lady Alice 
Brooke gained love and admiration whithersoever she 
went. But she never spoke of her husband. Lesley had 
gradually learned that she must not mention his name. In 
her younger days she had been wont to ask questions about 
her unknown father. Was he dead ? — was he in another 
country ? — why had she never seen him? She soon found 
that these questions were gently but decidedly checked. 
Her mother did not decline in so many words to answer 
them, but she set them aside. Only once, when Lesley 
was fifteen, and made some timid, wistful reference to the 
father whom she had never known, did Lady Alice make 
her a formal answer. 

I will tell you all about your father when you are old 
enough to hear,” she said. “ Until then, Lesley, I had 
rather that you did not talk of him.” 

Lesley shrank into herself abashed, and never mentioned 
his name again. 

^ All the same, as she grew older, her fancy played about 
this unknown father, as the fancy of young girls always 
l)lays about a mystery. Had he committed some crime ? 
had he disgraced himself and his family that his name 
might not be breathed in Lady Alice’s ear ? But she could 
not believe that her good, beautiful mother would ever 
have loved and married a wicked man I — such was the 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


9 


phrase that she, in her girlish innocence and ignorance, 
used to Iierself. As to scandal and tittle-tattle, none of it 
reached the seclusion of her convent-home, or was allowed 
to sully her fair mind. And it was impossible for her to 
connect the idea of folly, guilt, or shame with the pure, 
sweet face of her mother, or the stately pride and dignity 
of her mother’s father, the Earl of Courtleroy. There was 
evidently a mystery ; but she was sure of one thing, that it 
was a mystery without disgrace. 

And now, as she stood waiting on the stone steps, her 
face flushed a little, and her eyes filled at the thought that 
she would now, perhaps, be allowed to hear the story of 
her parents’ lives. For she knew that she was going to 
leave the convent, and it had been vaguely hinted by Lady 
Alice in a recent letter that on leaving the convent Lesley 
must be prepared for a great surprise. 

Lesley looked over the silent, sweet-scented garden, and 
half-sighed, half-smiled, to think that she should leave it so 
soon, and perhaps for ever. But she was excited rather 
than sad, and when one of the sisters appeared at the door 
of the study, ox salle d ' Lesley turned towards her 
with a quick, eager gesture, which not all the training to 
which she had been subjected since her childhood would 
have availed to suppress. 

‘‘ Oh, sister, tell me, has she come? ” 

The sister was a tall, spare woman, with a thin face and 
great dark eyes, with eyelids slightly reddened, as though 
by long weeping or sleeplessness. It was an austere face, 
but its severity softened into actual sweetness as she smiled 
at her pupil’s eagerness. 

“ Gently, my child : why so impetuous ? ” she said, tak- 
ing the girl’s hand in her own. Yes, madame has arrived : 
she is in the parlor, speaking to the Reverend Mother; and 
in five minutes you are to go to her.” 

Not for five minutes ? ” said Lesley ; and then, con- 
trolling herself, she added, penitently, I know I am 
impatient. Sister Rose.” 

Yes, dear child ; you are impatient : it is in your nature, 
in your blood,” said the sister, looking at her with a sort 
of pity in her eyes — a pity which Lesley resented, without 
quite knowing why. And you are going into a world 
where you will find many things sadly different from your 
expectations. If you remember the lessons that we have 


lO 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER, 


tried to read you here — lessons of patience, endurance, 
resignation to the will of others, and especially to the will 
of God — you will be happy in spite of sorrow and tribula- 
tion/* 

The young girl trembled : it seemed as if the sister spoke 
with a purpose, as if she knew of some difficulty, some 
danger that lay before her. She had been trained to ask 
no questions, and therefore she kept silence. But her lips 
trembled, and her beautiful brown eyes filled with tears. 

‘‘ Come, my dear child,** said Sister Rose, taking her by 
the hand, after a short pause, I will take you to your 
mother. She will be ready for you now. May God pro- 
tect you and guide you in your way through the world ! ** 

And Lesley lowered her head as if she had received a 
blessing. Sister Rose was a woman whom Lesley honored 
and revered, and her words, therefore, sank deep, and often 
recurred to the young girhs mind in days to come. 

They went in silence to the door of the parlor. Here 
Sister Rose relinquished her pupil’s hand, tapped three 
times on one of the panels, and signed to Lesley to open 
the door. With a trembling hand Lesley obeyed the sign ; 
and in another moment she was in her mother*s arms. 

Lady Alice Brooke was a very attractive looking woman. 
She was tall, slight, and graceful, and although she must 
have been close upon forty, she certainly had not the 
appearance of a woman over four or five and thirty. Her 
complexion was untouched by time : her cheeks were 
smooth and fair, her blue eyes clear. Her pretty brown 
hair had perhaps lost a little of the golden tinge of its 
youth, but it was still soft and abundant. But the reason 
why people often turned to look at her did not lie in any 
measure of grace and beauty that she possessed, so much 
as in an indefinable air of distinction and refinement which 
seemed to pervade her whole being, and marked her off 
from the rest of the world as one made of finer clay than 
others. 

Many people resented this demeanor — which was quite 
unconscious on Lady Alice’s part — and thought that it sig- 
nified pride, haiiglitiness, coldness of heart; but in all this 
they were greatly, if not altogether, mistaken. Lady Alice 
was not of a cold nature, and she was never willingly 
haughty ; but in some respects, she was what the world 
calls proud. She was proud of her ancient lineage ; of the 


BROCKETS DACJGHTER, 


II 


repute of her family, of the stainlessncss of its name. And 
she had brought up Lesley, as far as she could, in the same 
old tradition. 

Lesley was like her mother, and unlike, too. She had 
her mother\s tall, graceful figure ; but there was inuch more 
vivacity in her face than there had ever been in Lady 
Alice’s ; much more warmth and life and color. There 
was more determination in the lines of her mouth and chin : 
her brow was broader and fuller, and her eyes were dark 
brown instead of blue. But the likeness was there, with a 
diversity of expression and of coloring. 

“ I thought you were never coming,” said Lesley at 
length, as she clung fondly to her mother. I could hardly 
sleep last night for thinking how delightful it would be to 
go away with you ! ” 

Lady Alice gave a little start, and looked at the girl as 
if there had been some hidden meaning in her words. 

Go away with me ? ” she repeated. 

Yes, mother darling, and be with you always : to look 
after you and not let grandpapa tire you with long walks 
and long games of backgammon. I shall be his companion 
as well as yours, and I shall take care of you both. I have 
planned ever so many things that I mean to do — especially 
when we go to Scotland.” 

“ Lesley,” said Lady Alice, faintly, I am tired : let me 
sit down.” And then, as the girl made her seat herself in 
the one arm-chair that the room contained, and hung oyer 
her with affectionate solicitude, she went on, with paling 
lips : “ You never said these things in your letter, child ! 

I did not know that you were so anxious to come away — 
with me.” 

“Oh, mamma, dear, you surely knew it all the time ? ” 
said Lesley, thinking the comment a reproach. “ You 
surely knew how I longed to be with you? But I would 
not say much in my letters for fear of making you think I 
was unhappy ; and I have always been very happy here 
with the dear sisters and the girls. But I thought you 
understood me, mamma — understood by instinct, as it were,” 
said Lesley, kneeling by her mother’s side, and throwing an 
occasional shy glance into her mother’s face. 

“ I understand perfectly, dear, and I see your unselfish 
motive. It makes me all the more sorry to disappoint you 
as I am about to do ” 


22 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Oh, mamma ! Am I not to leave school, then ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, dear, you will leave school.’* 

‘‘ And — and — with you ? ” 

You will come with me, certainly — until to-morrow, 
darling. But you leave me to-morrow, too.’' 

The color began to fade from Lesley’s cheeks, as it had 
already faded from Lady Alice’s. The girl felt a great 
swelling in her throat, and a film seemed to dim the clear- 
ness of her sight. But Sister Rose’s words came back to 
her mind with an inspiring thrill which restored her strength. 

Patience, endurance, resignation ! ” Was this the occa- 
sion on which she was to show whether these virtues were 
hers or not ? She would not fail in the hour of trial : she 
would be patient and endure ! 

If you will explain, mamma dear,” she said, entreat- 
ingly, “ I will try to do — as you would like.” 

My darling ! My Lesley ! What a help it is to me to 
see you so brave!” said her mother, putting her arms 
round the girl’s shoulders, and resting her face on the 
bright young head. If I could keep you with me ! but it 
will be only for a time, my child, and then — then you will 
come back to me ? ” 

Come back to you, mamma ? As if anything would 
keep me away ! But what is it ? where am I to go ? what 
am I to do ? Why haven’t you told me before ? ” 

She was trembling with excitement. Patience was not 
one of Lesley’s virtues. She felt, with sudden heat of 
passion, that she could bear any pain rather than this sus- 
pense, which her mother’s gentle reluctance to give pain 
inflicted upon her. 

“ I did not tell you before,” said Lady Alice, slowl}^ 
“ because I was under a promise not to do so. I have 
been obliged to keep you in the dark about your future for 
many a long year, Lesley, and the concealment has always 
weighed upon my mind. You must forgive me, dearest, 
for this : I did not see the consequence of my promise 
when I made it first.” 

What promise was it, mamma? ” 

To let you leave me for a time, my dear : to let you 
go from me — to let you choose your own life — oh, it seems 
hard and cruel to me now.” 

Tell me,” pleaded Lesley, whose heart was by this 
time beating with painful rapidity, ‘‘ tell me all — quickly, 
mamma, and I promise ” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


13 


Promise nothing until you have heard what I have to 
say/^ said her mother, drawing back. I want you to 
hear the story before you see your grandfather again ; that 
is the reason why I begged the Mother to let me speak to 
you here, before you left the convent. I have been forced 
into my present line of action, Lesley : I never took it wil- 
fully. You shall judge for yourself if it were likely that I 

But I will not excuse myself beforehand. I can tell 

you all that is necessary for you to know in very few words ; 
and the rest lies in your hands.'' 

Lady Alice's pale lips quivered as she spoke, but her 
eyes were dry and filled with a light which was singularly 
cold and stern. Lesley^ kneeling still, looked up into her 
face, and, fascinated by what she saw there, remained mo- 
tionless and mute. 

“ I have not let you speak to me of your father," Lady 
Alice began, because I did not know how to answer your 
questions truthfully. But now I must speak of him. You 
have thought of him sometimes ? " 

Yes." 

And you h^^ve thought him dead ? " 

‘‘ I thought so — yes." 

“ But he is not dead," said Lady Alice, bitterly, To 
my exceeding misfortune — and yours also — your father, 
Lesley, is alive." 


14 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER II. 

LADt ALICE'S STORY. 

The girl shrank back a little, but she did not remove her 
eyes from her mother's face. A great dread, however, had 
entered into them. A hot color leaped into her cheeks. 
Scarcely did she yet know what she dreaded ; it was some- 
thing intangible, too awful to be uttered — the terror of 
disgrace. 

But Lady Alice saw the look and interpreted it aright. 

‘‘ No, my darling," she said, ‘‘ it is not that. It is 
nothing to be ashamed of — exactly. I do not accuse your 
father of any crime — unless it be a crime to have married a 
woman that he did not love, and to whom he was not suited, 
and to have been cruel — yes, cruel — to her and to her 
child.'’ ^ • 

And then shovburst into tears. 

“ Mamma, dear mamma ! " said Lesley, clasping her and 
sobbing out of sympathy, “ it was a crime — worse than a 
crime — to be cruel to you'’* 

Lady Alice sobbed helplessly for a few minutes. Then 
she commanded herself by a great and visible effort and 
dried her eyes. 

‘‘ It is weak to give way before you, child," she said, 
sadly. ‘‘ But I cannot tell you how much I have dreaded 
this moment — the moment when I must tell you of the 
great error of my life." 

“ Don’t tell me, mamma. I would rather hear nothing 
that you did not want me to know.’' 

‘‘ But I must tell you, Lesley. It is in my bargain with 
my husband that I should tell you. If I say nothing he 
will tell you his side — and perhaps that would be worse." 

Lesley kissed her mother's delicate hand. ‘‘ Then — if you 
must tell me — I should be glad to hear it all now," she 
said, in a shaking voice. “ Nothing seems so bad as to 
know half a story — or only to guess a part " 

‘‘Ah, you have wondered why I told you nothing of 
your father ? " 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 




I could not help wondering, mamma.” 

Poor child ! Well, whatever it costs me I will tell you 
all my story now. Listen carefully, darling : I do not 
want to have to tell it twice.”' 

She pressed her handkerchief to her lips as if to prevent 
them from trembling, and then turning her eyes to another 
part of the room so that they need not rest upon her 
daughter's face Lady Alice began her story. 

My tale is a tale of folly, not of crime,” she said. 
‘‘ You must remember, Lesley, that I was a motherless girl, 
brought up in a lonely Scotch house in a very haphazard 
way. My dear father loved me tenderly, but he was away 
from home for the greater part of the year ; and he under- 
stood little of a girl's nature or a girl's requirements. When 
I was sixteen he allowed me to dismiss my governess, and 
to live as I liked. I was romantic and dreamy ; I spent a 
great deal of time in the library, and he thought that there 
at least I was safe. He would have been more careful of 
me, as he said afterwards, if I had wanted to roam over 
the moors and fields, to fish or shoot as many modern 
women do. I can only say that I think I should have been 
far safer on the hillside or the moor than I was in the 
lonely recesses of that library, pouring over musty volumes 
of chivalry and romance. 

“ My only change was a few weeks in London with 
friends, during the season. Here, young as I was, I was 
thrown into a whirl of gaiety ; but the society that I met 
was of the best sort, and I welcomed it as a pleasant 
relaxation. I saw the pleasant side of everything. You 
see I was very young. I went to the most charming parties : 
I was well introduced : I think I may say that I was 
admired. My first season was almost the happiest — cer- 
tainly the most joyous — period of my life. But it was still 
a time of unreality, Lesley : the glitter and glamour of that 
glimpse of London society was as unreal as my dreams of 
love and beauty and nobleness in the old library at home. 
I lacked a mother's guiding hand, my child, and a mother's 
tender voice to tell me what was false and what was true.” 

Involuntarily Lesley drew closer than ever to her mother. 

The ring of pain in Lady Alice's voice saddened and even 
affirighted her. It suggested a passionate yearning, an 
anxiety of love, which almost overwhelmed her. It is 
always alarming to a young and simple nature to be brought 


i6 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


suddenly into contact with a very strong emotion, either of 
anguish, love, or joy. 

“ I suffered for my loss,’' Lady Alice went on, after a 
short pause. But at first without knowing that I suffered. 
There comes a time in every woman's life, Lesley, when she 
is in need of help and counsel, when, in fact, she is in 
danger. As soon as a woman loves, she stands on the 
brink of a precipice.” 

I thought,'' murmured Lesley, that love was the 
most beautiful thing in the world ? ” 

“ Is that what the nuns have taught you ? ’' asked her 
mother, with a keen glance at the girl's flushing cheek. 
“Well, in one sense it is true. Love is a beautiful thing to 
look at — an angel to outward show — with the heart, too 
often, of a fiend ; and it is he who leads us to that precipice 
of which I spoke — the precipice of disillusion and des- 
pair.'' 

To Lesley these words were as blasphemy, for they 
contradicted the whole spirit of the teaching which she had 
received. But she did not dare to contradict her mother's 
opinions. She looked down, and reflected dumbly that 
her mother knew more about the subject than she could 
possibly do. The good Sisters had talked to her about 
heavenly love ; she had made no fine distinctions in her 
mind as to the kind of love they meant — possibly tliere 
were two kinds. And while she was considering this 
knotty point, her mother began to speak again. 

“ I was between eighteen and nineteen,'' said Lady Alice, 

scarcely as old as you are now, when a new interest came 
into my life. My father gave permission to a young literary 
man to examine our archives, which contained much of 
historical value. He never thought of cautioning me to 
leave the library to Mr. Brooke’s sole occupation. I was 
accustomed to spend much of my time there : and the 
stranger — Mr. Brooke — must have heard this fact from the 
servants, for he begged that he might not disturb me, and 
that I would frequent the library as usual. After a little 
hesitation, I began to do so. My father was in London, 
and my only chaperon was an old lady who was too infirm 
to be of much use. Before long, I began to help Mr. 
Brooke in his researches and inquiries. He was writing a 
book on the great Scottish families of that part of the 
country, and the subject interested me. Need I tell you 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


17 


what followed, Lesley ? Need I explain to you the heedless 
selfish folly of that time ? I forgot my duty to my father, 
my duty to myself. I fancied 1 loved this man, and I 
promised to marry him.^^ 

There was a a light of interest in Lesley’s eyes. She 
did not altogether understand her mother’s tone. It 
sounded as though Lady Alice condemned lovers and all 
their ways, and such condemnation puzzled the girl, in 
spite of her convent breeding. During the last few months 
she had been allowed a much wider range of literature 
than was usual in the Sisters’ domain ; her mother had 
requested that she should be supplied with certain volumes 
of history, fiction, and poetry, that had considerably 
enlarged Lesley’s views of life ; and yet Lady Alice’s words 
seemed to contradict all that the girl had pt^viously heard 
or read of love. The mother read the unspoken question 
in Lesley’s eyes, and answered it in a somewhat modified 
tone. 

My dear, I do not mean that I think it wrong to love. 
So long as the world lasts I suppose people will love — and 
be miserable. It is right enough, if it is opposed by no 
other law. But in my case, I was wrong from beginning 
to end. I knew that my father would never give his per- 
mission to my marriage with Mr. Brooke ; and, in my 
youthful folly, I thought that my best plan was to take my 
own way. I married Mr. Brooke in private, and then I 
went away with him to London. And it was not long, 
Lesley, before I rued my disobedience and my deceit. It 
was a great mistake.” 

But mamma, why were you so sure that grandpapa 
would not give his consent ? ” 

Lady Alice opened her gentle eyes with a look of pro- 
found astonishment. 

Darling, don’t you see ? Mr. Brooke was — nobody.” 

But if you loved him ” 

No, Lesley, your grandfather would never have heard 
of such a marriage. He had his own plans for me. My 
dear, I am not saying a word against your father in saying 
this. I am only telling you the fact — that he was what is 
often called a self-made, self-educated man, who could not 
possibly be styled my equal in the eyes of society. His 
father had been a small tradesman in Devonshire. The son 
being clever and— and — handsome, made his way a little 

2 


^ROOKE^S DAUGHTER. 


i8 

in the world. He became a journalist : he wrote for ma- 
gazines and newspapers and reviews : he was what is called 
a literary hack. He had no certain prospects, no certain 
income, when he married me. I think,” said Lady Alice, 
with a sort of cold scorn, which was intensified by the very 
softness of her tones, “ that he could not have done a more 
unjustifiable thing than persuade a girl in my position to 
marry him.” 

Lesley felt a slight diminution of sympathy with her 
mother. Perhaps Lady Alice was conscious of some 
change in her face, for she added hastily. 

Don’t misjudge me, Lesley. If there had been between 
us the strong and tender love of which women too often 
dream, poverty might perhaps have been forgotten. It 
sounds terribly worldly to draw attention to the fact that 
poverty is apt to kill a love which was not very strong at 
the beginning. But the fact was that neither Caspar 
Brooke nor I knew our own minds. He was three-and- 
twenty and I was eighteen. We married in haste, and we 
certainly repented very much at leisure.” 

AVas he not — kind ? ” asked Lesley, timidly. 

‘‘Kind?” said her mother, with a sigh. “Oh, yes, 
perhaps he was kind — at first. Until he was tired of me, 
or I was tired of him. I don’t know on which side the 
disillusion was felt first. Think where I came from — from 
the dear old Castle, the moors, the lochs, the free fresh air 
of Scotland, to a dreary lodging of two little rooms in a 
dingy street, where I had to cut and contrive and econo- 
mize to make ends meet. I was an ignorant girl, and I 
could not do it. I got into debt, and my husband was 
angry with me. Why should \ tell you the petty, sordid 
details of my life ? I soon found out that I was miserable 
and that he was miserable too.” 

Lesley listened breathlessly with hidden face. The story 
was full of humiliation for her. It seemed like a desecra- 
tion of all that she had hitherto held dear. 

“ My father and my friends would not forgive me,” Lady 
Alice went on. “ In our direst straits of poverty, I am 
glad to say that I never appealed to them. We struggled 
on together — your father and I — until you were four years 
old. Then a change came — a change which made it 
impossible for me to bear the misery of my life. Your 
father 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


19 


She came to a sudden stop, and sat with eyes fixed on 
the opposite wall, a curious expression of mingled desola- 
tion and contemi)t upon her cold, clear-cut face. For some 
reason or other Lesley felt afraid to hear what her mother 
had to say. 

Mamma, don’t tell me ! Don’t look like that,” she 
cried. I can’t bear to hear it ! Why need you tell me any 
more ? ” 

‘‘ Because,” said her mother, slowly, “ because your 
father exacts this sacrifice from me : that I should tell you 
— you^ my daughter — the reason why I left him. I pro- 
mised that I would do so, and I will keep my promise. 
The thing that hurts me most, Lesley, is to think that I 
may be injuring you — staining your innocence — darkening 
your youth — by telling you what I have to tell. At your 
age^ I would rather that you knew nothing of life but its 
brighter side — nothing of love but what was fair and sweet. 
But it is the punishment of my first false step that I 
should bring sorrow upon my child, Lesley, in years to 
come remember that I have warned you to be honest and 
true, unless you would make those miserable whom you 
love best. If I had never deceived my father, my husband 
would never perhaps have deceived me ; and I should not 
have to tell my child that the last person in the world whom 
she must trust is her father.” 

There was a little silence, and then she continued in a 
strained and unnatural tone. 

“ There was a woman — another woman — whom he loved. 
That is all.” 

Lesley shivered and hid her face. To her mind, young 
and innocent as it was, the fact which her mother stated 
seemed like an indelible stain. She hardly dared as yet 
think what it meant. And, after a long paifse, Lady Alice 
went on quietly — 

I do not want to exaggerate. I do not believe that he 
meant to leave me — even to be untrue to me. I could not 
speak to you of him if I thought him so black-hearted, so 
treacherous. I mean simply this — take the fact as I state 
it, and inquire no further ; I found that my husband cared 
for some one else more than he cared for me. My resolu- 
tion was taken at once : I packed up my things, left his 
house, and threw myself at my father’s feet. He was good 
to me and forgave me, and since then. . . I have never 
entered my husband’s house again.” 


20 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘ He must have been wicked — wicked ! '' said Lesley, in 
a strangled voice. 

No, he was not wicked. Let me do him so much 
justice. He was upright on the whole, I believe. He 
never meant to give me cause for complaint. But I had 
reason to believe that another woman suited him better 
than I did . . . and it was only fair to leave him.” 

But did he — could he — marry her? I mean 

My poor Lesley, you are very ignorant,” said Lady 
Alice, smiling a wan smile, and touching the girl’s cheek 
lightly with her hand. ‘‘ How could he marry another 
woman when I was alive ? Your father and I separated 
on account of what is called incompatibility of temper. 
The question of the person whom he apparently preferred 
to me never arose between us.” 

Then, is it mot possible, mamma, that you may have 
been mistaken ? ” said Lesley, impetuously. 

Lady Alice shook her head. Quite impossible, Lesley. 
I accuse your father of nothing. I only mean that another 
woman — one of his friends — would have suited him better 
than I, and that he knew it. I have no cause for complaint 
against him. And I would not have told you this^ had I not 
felt it a duty to put in the strongest possible light my rea- 
sons for leaving him, so that a day may never come when 
you turn round upon me and blame me — as others have 
done — for fickleness, for ill-temper, for irripatience with my 
husband ; because now you know — as no one else knows 
— the whole truth.” 

‘‘ But I should never blame you, mamma.” 

‘‘ I do not know. I know this — that your father is a 
man who can persuade and argue and represent his con- 
duct in any light that suits his purpose. He is a very 
eloquent — a very plausible man. He will try to win you 
over to his side.” 

‘‘ But I shall never see him.” 

‘‘ Yes, Lesley, you will. You are going to him to-morrow.” 

‘‘ I will not — I will not ” — said the girl, springing from 
her knees, and involuntarily clenching her right hand. I 
will not speak to him — if he treated my darling mother so 
shamefully he must be bad, and I will not acknowledge 
any relationship to him.” 

A look of apprehension showed itself in Lady Alice’s 
eyes. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


21 


Darling/^ she said, ‘‘you must not let your generous 
love for me run away with your judgment. I am bound, 
and you must be bound with me. Listen, when your 
father found that I had left him he was exceedingly 
angry. He came to your grandfather's house, he 
clamored to see me, he attempted to justify himself — oh, 
I cannot tell you the misery that I went through. At last 
I consented to see him. He behaved like a madman. 
He swore that he would have me back — tyrant that he 
was ! ” 

“ Mamma — perhaps he cared ? " 

“ Cared ! He cared for his reputation/' said Lady Alice 
growing rather white about the lips. “ For nothing else ! 
Not for me, Lesley ! When his violence had expended 
itself we came to terms. He agreed to let me live where 
I liked on condition that when you were eight years old 
you were sent to school, and saw me only during the 
holidays 

“ But why ? 

“ He said that he dreaded my influence on your mind," 
said Lady Alice. “ That you should be brought up at a 
good school was the first thing. Secondly, that when you 
were nineteen you should spend a year with him, and then 
a year with me ; and that when you were twenty-one you 
should choose for yourself with which of the two you pre- 
ferred to cast in your lot." 

“ Oh, mamma, I cannot go to him now." 

“ You must go, Lesley. I am bound, and you are bound 
by my promise. Only for a year, my darling. Then you 
can come back to me for ever. I stipulated that I should 
see you first, and say to you what I chose." 

“ But cannot I wait a little while ? " 

“Twenty-four hours, Lesley; that is all. You go to 
your father to-morrow." 


22 


BKOOKI^'S DAUGHJEjR. 


CHAPTER III. 

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 

The conversation between Lesley and her mother occupied 
a considerable time, and the sun was sinking westward 
when at last the two ladies left the Convent. Lesley’s 
adieux had been made before Lady Alice’s arrival, and 
the only persons whom she saw, therefore, after the long 
interview with her mother, were the Mother Superior, and 
the Sister who had summoned her to the parlor. 

While Lady Alice and the Reverend Mother exchanged 
a few last words, Lesley drew close to Sister Rose’s side, 
and laid her hand on the serge-covered arm. 

‘‘You were right,” she said. “Sister, I see already 
that I shall need patience and endurance where I am 
going.” 

“ Gentleness and love, also,” said the Sister. .Then, as 
if in answer to an indefinable change in Lesley’s lips and 
eyes, she added gently, “We are told that peacemakers 
are blessed.” 

“ I could not make peace-^ ” Lesley began, hastily, 

and then she stopped short, confused, not knowing how 
much Sister Rose had heard of her mother's story. But 
if Sister Rose were ignorant of it, her next words were 
singularly appropriate. For she said, in a low tone — 

“ Peace is better than war : forgiveness better than 
hatred. Dear child, it may be in your hands to reconcile 
those who have been long divided. Do your best.” 

Lesley had no time to reply. 

It was a long drive from the Convent of the Annon- 
ciades to the hotel where Lord Courtleroy and Lady Alice 
were staying. The mother and daughter spoke little ; each 
seemed wrapped in her own reflections. There were a 
hundred questions which Lesley was longing to ask ; but 
she did not like to disturb her mother's silence. Dusk had 
fallen before their destination was reached ; and Lesley’s 
thoughts were diverted a little from their sad bewilderment 
by what was to her the novel sight of Paris by gaslight, 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


23 


and the ever-flowing, opposing currents of human beings 
that filled the streets. Hitherto, when she had left the 
Sisters for her holidays, her mother had wisely kept her 
within certain bounds : she had not gone out of doors after 
dark, she had not seen anything but the quieter sides of 
life. But now all seemed to be changed. Her mother 
mentioned the name of the best hotel in Paris as their 
destination : she said a few words about shopping, dresses, 
and jewellery, which made Lesley^s heart beat faster, in 
spite of a conviction that it was very mean and base to 
feel any joy in such trivial matters. Especially under 
present circumstances. But she was young and full of life, 
and there certainly was some excitement in the prospect 
before her. 

I shall not need much where I am going, shall I ? ” she 
hazarded timidly. 

Perhaps not, but you must not be in any difficulty. 
There is not time to do a great deal, but you can be fitted 
and have some dresses sent after you, and I can choose 
your hats. And a fur-lined cloak for travelling — you will 
want that. We must do what we can in the time. It is 
not likely that your father sees much society.’^ 

It will be very lonely,” said Lesley, with a little gasp. 

“ My poor child ! I am afraid it will. I can tell some 
friends of mine to call on you ; but I don’t know whether 
they will be admitted.” 

‘‘Where is — the house?” Lesley asked. She did not 
like to say “my father’s house.” 

“ In Upper Woburn Place, Bloomsbury. I believe it is 
near Euston Square, or some such neighborhood.” 

“ Then it is not where jou lived, mamma?” 

“ No, dear. We lived further West, in a street near 
Portman Square. I believe that Mr. Brooke finds Blooms- 
bury a convenient district for the kind of-work that he has 
to do.” 

She spoke very formally of her husband ; but Lesley 
began to notice an under-current of resentment, of some- 
thing like contempt, in her voice when she spoke of him. 
Lady Alice tried in vain to simulate an indifference which 
she did not feel, and the very effort roughened her voice 
and sharpened her accent in a way of which she was 
unconscious. The effect on a young girl, who had not 
seen much of human emotion, was to induce a passing 


24 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


doubt of her mother’s judgment, and a transient wonder 
as to whether her father had always been so much in the 
wrong. The sensation was but momentary, for Lesley was 
devotedly attached to her mother, and could not believe 
her to be mistaken. And, while she was repenting of her 
hasty injustice, the carriage stopped between the white 
globes of electric light that fronted a great hotel, and Lesley 
was obliged to give her attention to the things around her 
rather than to her own thoughts and feelings. 

A waiter conducted the mother and daughter up one 
flight of stairs and consigned them to the care of a chamber- 
maid. The chambermaid led them to the door of a suite 
of rooms, where they were met by Dayman, Lady Alice’s 
own woman, whose stolid face relaxed into a smile of 
pleasure at the sight of Lesley. 

‘‘ Take Miss Brooke to her own room and see that she 
is made nice for dinner,’' said her mistress. His Lord- 
ship has ordered dinner in our own rooms, I suppose 7 ” 

“ Yes, my lady. Covers for four — Captain Duchesne is 
here.” 

‘‘ Oh,” said Lady Alice, with an accent of faint surprise, 
“ oh — well — Lesley, dear, we must not be late.” 

To Lesley it seemed hardly worth while to unpack her 
boxes and dress herself for that one evening in the soft 
embroidered white muslin which had hitherto served for 
her best Sunday frock. But Mrs. Dayman insisted on a 
careful toilette, and was well satisfied with the result. 

“ There, Miss Lesley,” she said, “ you have just your 
mamma’s look — a sort of finished look, as if you were 
perfect outside and in ! ” 

Lesley laughed. That compliment might be taken in 
two ways. Dayman,’^ she said, as she turned to meet her 
mother at the door. And in a few minutes she was stand- 
ing in the gay little French salo7i^ where the earl was con- 
versing with a much younger man in a glare of waxlights. 

Lord Coiirtleroy was a stately-looking man, with per- 
fectly show-white hair and beard, an upright carriage, and 
bright, piercing, blue eyes. A striking man in appearance, 
and of exceedingly well-marked characteristics. The 
family pride for which he had long been noted seemed to 
show itself in his bearing and in every feature as he greeted 
his granddaughter, and yet it was softened by a touch of 
personal affection with which family pride had notliing 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


25 


whatever to do. For Lord Courtleroy's feelings towards 
Lesley were mixed. He saw in her the child of a man 
whose very name he detested, who stood as a type to him 
of all that was hateful in the bourgeois class. But he also 
saw in her his own granddaughter, ‘‘ poor Alice’s girl,'’ 
whom fate had used so unkindly in giving her Caspar 
Brooke for a father. The earl had next to no personal 
knowledge of Caspar Brooke. They had not met since 
the one sad and stormy interview which they had held 
together when Lady Alice had left her husband’s house. 
And Lord Courtleroy was wont to declare that he did not 
wish to know anything more of Mr. Brooke. That he was 
a Radical journalist, and that he had treated a daughter of 
the Courtleroys • with shameful unkindness and neglect, 
was quite enough for the earl. And his manner to Lesley 
varied a little according as his sense of her affinity with 
his own family or his remembrance of her kinship with 
Mr. Brooke was uppermost. 

Lesley was too simply filial in disposition to resent or 
even to remark on his changes of mood. She admired her 
grandfather immensely, and was pleased to hear him com- 
ment on her growth and development since she saw him 
last. And then the visitor was introduced to her ; and to 
Lesley’s interest and surprise she saw that he was young. 

Young men were an unknown quantity to Lesley. She 
could not remember that she had ever spoken to a man so 
young and so good-looking before ! Captain Henry 
Duchesne was tall, well-made, well-dressed : he was very 
dark in complexion, and had a rather heavy jaw ; but his 
dark eyes were pleasant and honest, and he had a very 
attractive smile. The length of his moustache was almost 
the first thing that struck Lesley : it seemed to her so 
abnormally lengthy, with such very stiffly waxed ends, that 
she could scarcely avert her eyes from them. She was 
not able to tell, save from instinct, whether a man were 
well or ill-dressed, but she felt sure that Captain Duchesne’s 
air of smartness was due to the perfection of every detail 
of his attire. She liked his manner : it was easy, well- 
bred, and unassuming ; and she felt glad that he was 
present. For after the communication made to her by her 
mother, the evening might have proved an occasion of 
embarrassment. It was a relief to talk to some one for a 
little while who did not know her present circumstances 
and position. 


26 


BROOKFJS DAUGHTER, 


Lady Alice watched the two young people with a little 
dawning trouble in her sad eyes. She had known and 
liked Harry Duchesne since his childhood, and she had 
not been /ree from certain hopes and visions of his future, 
which affected Lesley also, but she thought that her father’s 
invitation had been premature. Especially when she heard 
Captain Duchesne say to the girl in the course of the 
evening — 

‘‘ Are you going to London to-morrow ? ” 

Yes, I believe so/’ said Lesley, looking down. 

‘‘ And you will be in town during the winter, I hope ? ” 

Lady Alice thought it well to interpose. 

“ My daughter will not be staying with me. She goes 
to a relation’s house for a few months, and will lead a very 
quiet life indeed. When she comes back to Courtleroy it 
will be time enough for her to commence a round of 
gaieties.” This with a smile ; but, as Henry Duchesne 
knew well enough, with Lady Alice a smile sometimes 
covered a very serious purpose. His quick perceptions 
showed him that he was not wanted to call on Miss Brooke 
during her stay in London, and he adroitly changed the 
subject. 

Unfashionable relations, I suppose,” he said to him- 
self, reflecting on the matter at a later hour of the evening. 
‘‘ Upon my word I shouldn’t have thought that Lady Alice 
was so worldly-minded ! She certainly didn’t want me to 
know where Miss Brooke was going. To some relation 
of that disreputable father of hers, I should fancy. Poor 
girl!” 

For, like many other persons in London society. Captain 
Duchesne knew only the name and nothing of the character 
of the man whom Lady Alice had married and left. It 
was vaguely sui)posed that he was not a very respectable 
character, and that no woman of si)irit would have sub- 
mitted to live with him any longer. Lady Alice’s reputa- 
tion stood so high that it could not be supposed that any 
one excci)t her husband was in fault. Brooke is not an 
uncommon name. In certain circles the name of Caspar 
Brooke was known well enough ; but was not often identi- 
fied with the man who had run away with an earl’s 
daughter. He had other claims to repute, but in a world 
to which Lady Alice had not the right of entry. 

When Harry Duchesne had departed Lady Alice went 
with Lesley to her bedroonv Mother and daughter sat 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER. 


27 


down together, clasping each other’s hands, and looking 
wistfully from time to time into each other’s faces, but 
saying very little. The wish to ask questions faded out of 
Lesley’s mind. She could not ask more than her mother 
chose to tell her. 

But Lady Alice thought that she had already said too 
much, and she restrained her tongue. It was after a long 
and pregnant silence that she murmured — 

Lesley, my child, I want you to promise me some- 
thing.” 

“ Oh, yes, mamma ! ” 

“ I feel like one who is sending a lamb forth into the 
midst of wolves. Not that Mr. Brooke is a wolf — exactly,” 
said Lady Alice, with a forced laugh, ‘‘ but I mean that 
you are young and — and — unsophisticated, and that there 
may be a mixture of people at his house.” 

Lesley was silent ; she did not quite know what “ a 
mixture of people ” would be like. 

‘‘ I am so afraid for you, darling,” said her mother, 
pleadingly. Afraid lest you should be drawn into 
relationships and connections that you might afterwards 
regret. Do you understand me? Will you promise me 
to make no vows of any sort while you are away from me? 
Only for one year, my child — promise me for the year.” 

‘‘ I don’t think I quite understand you, mamma.” 

Must I put it so plainly ? I mean this, Lesley. Don’t 
engage yourself to be married while you are in your father’s 
house.” 

Oh, that is easily promised ! ” said Lesley, with a smile 
of frank amusement and relief. 

‘‘It may not be so easy to carry out as you think. Give 
me your word, darling. You promise not to form any 
engagement of marriage for a year? You promise me 
that?” 

“ Oh, yes, mamma, I promise,” said the girl, so lightly 
that Lady Alice almost felt that she had done an unwar- 
rantable thing in exacting a promise only half understood. 
But she swallowed her rising qualms, and went on, as if 
exculpating herself — 

“ It is a safeguard. I do not ask you to marry only a 
man that I approve — I simply ask you to wait until I can 
help you with my advice. It will be no loss to you in any 
way. You ^re too young to think of these things yet ; 


28 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


but it is on the young that unscrupulous persons love to 
prey — and therefore 1 give you a warning/’ 

‘‘ I am quite sure that I shall not need it,” said Lesley, 
confidently; ‘‘and if I did, I could write and ask your 
advice ” 

“ No, no ! Oh, how could I forget to tell you? You 
are not to write to me while you are in your father’s house.” 

“ Oh, mamma, that is cruel.” 

“ It is his doing, not mine.. Intercede with hwi., if you 
like. That was one of the conditions — that for this one 
year you should have no intercourse with me. And for 
the next year you will have no intercourse with him. And 
after that, you may choose for yourself.” 

But this deprivation of correspondence affected Lesley 
more powerfully than even the prospect of separation — to 
which she was used already. She threw herself into her 
mother’s arms and wept bitterly for a few moments. Then 
it occurred to her that she was acting neither thoughtfully 
nor courageously, and that her grief would only grieve her 
mother, and could remedy nothing. So she sat up and 
dried her eyes, and tried to respond cheerfully when Lady 
Alice spoke a few soothing words. But in the whole course 
of her short life poor Lesley had never been so miserable 
as she was that night. 

The bustle of preparation which had to be gone through 
next day prevented her, however, from thinking too much 
about her troubles. She and Lady Alice, with the faithful 
Dayman, were to leave Paris late in the afternoon ; and 
the morning was spent in hurried excursions to sliops, 
interviews with milliners and dressmakers, eager discus- 
sions on color, shape, and fitness. Lesley was glad to see 
that she was not to be sent to London with anything over- 
fine in the way of clothes. Tlie gowns chosen were 
extremely simple, but in good taste ; and the modiste 
piomised that they should be sent after the young lady in 
the course of a very few days. There was some argument 
as to whether Lesley would require a ball dress, or dinner 
dresses. Lady Alice thought not. But, although nothing 
that could actually be called a ball- dress was ordered, there 
were one or two frocks of lovely shimmering hue and 
delightfully soft texture which would serve for any such 
festivity. 


BROCKETS DAUGH7ER. 


29 


Though in my day/^ said Lady Alice, smiling, we 
did not go to balls in Bloomsbury. But, of course, I don’t 
know what society Mr. Brooke sees now.’* 

Lesley was conscious of the sarcasm. 

The earl remained in Paris, while Lady Alice went with 
her daughter from Havre to Southampton, and thence to 
London. Dayman travelled with them ; and a supple- 
mentary escort appeared in the person ofCaj)tain Duchesne, 
who happened to be travelling that way.” Lady Alice 
was not displeased to see him, although she had a guilty 
sense of stealing a march upon her husband in providing 
Lesley with a standard of youthful good-breeding and 
good-looks. It might tend to preserve her from forming 
any silly attachment in her father’s circle. Lady Alice 
thought. As a matter of fact, she was singularly ignorant 
of what that circle might comprise. She had left him 
before his more prosperous days began to dawn, and 
she continued therefore to picture him to herself as the 
struggling journalist in murky lodgings — “ the melancholy 
literary man” who smoked strong tobacco far into the 
night, and talked of things in which she had no interest at 
all. If matters were changed with Caspar Brooke since 
then. Lady Alice did not know it. 

She had ascertained that Mr. Brooke’s sister was living 
in his house, and that she was capable of acting in some 
sort as Lesley’s chaperon. Then, a connection of the 
earl’s was rector of a neighboring church close to Upper 
Woburn Place — and he had promised to take Miss Brooke 
under his especial pastoral care — although, as he mildly 
insinuated, he was not in the habit of visiting at Number 
Fifty. And with these recommendations and assurances, 
Lady Alice was forced to be content. 

She parted from her daughter at Waterloo Station. It 
did not seem possible to her to drive up to her husband’s 
house in a cab, and drive away again. She committed her, 
therefore, to the care of Dayman, and put the girl and her 
maid into a four-wheeler, with Lesley’s luggage on the top. 
Then she established herself in the ladies’ waiting-room, 
until such time as Dayman should return. 

With beating heart and flushing cheek Lesley drove 
through the rapidly-darkening streets to her father’s house. 
She was terribly nervous at the prospect of meeting him. 


30 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER, 


And, even after the history that she had learnt from her 
mother, she felt that she had not the slightest notion as to 
what manner of man Caspar Brooke might turn out to be. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


3 » 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE MANNER OF MAN. 

On the day preceding Lesley Brooke’s arrival in London, 
a tall, broad-shouldered man was walking along South- 
ampton Row. He was a big man — a man whom people 
turned to look at — a distinctly noticeable man. He was 
considerably taller and broader than the average of his 
fellows : he was wide-chested and muscular, though with- 
out any inclination to stoutness ; and he had a handsome, 
sunburned face, with a short brown beard and deep-set, 
dark-brown eyes. His hair was not cut quite to the con- 
ventional shortness, perhaps : there was a lock that would 
fall in an unruly manner across the broad brow with an 
obstinacy no hairdresser could subvert. But, in all other 
respects, he was very much as other men : he dressed well, 
if rather carelessly, and presented to the world a somewhat 
imposing personality. He did not wear gloves, and he had 
no flower at his button-hole ; but the respectability of his 
silk hat and well-made coat was unimpeachable, and he had 
all the air of easy command which is so characteristic of the 
well-bred Englishman. The slight roughness about him 
was as inseparable from his build and his character as it is 
to the best-groomed and best-bred staghound or mastiff of 
the highest race. 

Southampton Row, as is well known, leads into Russell 
Square. In fact the straight line of the Row merges imper- 
ceptibly into one side of the Square, whence it continues 
under the name of Woburn Place, the East side of Tavis- 
tock Square, Upper Woburn Place, and Euston Square, 
losing itself at last in the Northern wilderness of the 
crowded Euston Road. It was at a house which he 
passed in his straight course from Holburn towards St. 
Pancras that this very tall and strong-looking gentleman 
stopped, at about five o’clock on a September afternoon. 

He stood on the steps for a moment, and looked up and 
down the house doubtfully, as if seeking for signs of life 


32 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


from within. A great many people were still out of town, 
and he was uncertain whether the occupants of this house 
were at home or not. The place had evidently been in 
the hands of painters and cleaners since he saw it last : 
the stone-work was scrupulously white, the wood-work 
was painted a delicate green. The visitor lifted his well- 
defined eyebrows at the lightness of the color, as he turned 
to the door and rang the bell. It was easy to see that he 
was an observant man, upon whose eyes very few things 
were lost. 

“Mrs. Romaine in? ” he asked the trim maid who ap^ 
peared in answer to his ring. He noticed that she was a 
new maid. 

“ Yes, sir. What name shall I say, please, sir ? 

“ Mr. Brooke.^^ 

The girl looked intelligent, as if she had heard the name 
before. And Mr. Brooke, following her upstairs to the 
drawing-room, reflected on the quickness with which ser- 
vants make themselves acquainted with their masters' and 
mistresses' affairs, and the disadvantages of a civilization 
in which you were at the mercy of your servants' tongues. 

These reflections had no bearing on his own circum- 
stances : they proceeded entirely from Mr. Brooke's habit of 
taking general views, and making large applications of 
small things. 

The day was cloudy, and, although it was only five 
o'clock, the streets were growing dark. The weather was 
chilly, moreover, and the wind blew from the East. It 
was a pleasant change to enter Mrs. Romaine’s drawing- 
room, which was full of soft light from a glowing little 
fire, full of the scent of roses and the lovely tints of Indian 
embroideries, Italian tapestries, dead gold-leaf back- 
grounds, and china that was beautiful as well as rare. 
Lady Alice Brooke, in her narrow isolation from the world, 
would not have believed that so charming a room could be 
found east of Great Portland Street. In which opinion 
she was very much mistaken ; for her belief that in 
“ society " and society's haunts alone could one find taste, 
culture, and beauty, led her to ignore the vast number of 
intellectual and artistic folk who still sojourn in the dim 
squares of Bloomsbury and Regent's Park. Sooth to say 
Lady Alice knew absolutely nothing of the worlds of intel- 
lect and art, save by means of an occasional article in the 


BROOKE’S DAUGHTER, 


33 


magazines, or a stroll through the large picture galleries of 
London during the season. She was a good woman in her 
way, and — also in her way — a clever one ; but she had 
been brought up in another atmosphere from that which her 
husband loved, elevated in a totally different school, and 
she was not of a nature to adapt herself to what she did 
not thoroughly understand. 

Mrs. Romaine knew well enough that she was quite as 
well able to hold her own in the fashionable world if once 
she obtained an entrance to it as any Lady Alice or Lady 
Anybody of her acquaintance. But then the difficulty of 
entering it was very great. She had not sufficient fortune 
to vie with women who every year spent hundreds on their 
dress and on their dinner. She was handsome, but she 
was middle-aged. She had few friends of sufficient dis- 
tinction to push her forward. And she was a wise woman. 
She thought it better to live where she enjoyed a good 
deal of popularity and consideration ; where she could en- 
tertain in a modest way, where her husband had been well 
known, and she could glow with the reflected light that 
came to her from his shining abilities. These reasons were 
patent to the world : she really made no secret of them. 
But there was another reason, not quite so patent to the 
world, for her living quietly in Russell Square, and this 
reason she kept strictly to herself. 

Mrs. Romaine had been a widow for three years. Her 
husband had been a very learned man — Professor of nume- 
rous Oriental languages at University College for some 
years, afterwards a Judge in Calcutta; and as he had 
always lived in the West Central district during ,his Pro- 
fessorate, Mrs. Romaine declared that she loved it and 
could live nowhere else. The house in Russell Square 
was only partly hers. Her brother rented some of the 
rooms (shared the house with her, as Mrs. Romaine 
vaguely phrased it), and lightened the expense. But the 
two drawing-rooms, opening out of one another, were 
entirely at Mrs. Romaine^s disposal, and she was generally 
to be found there between four and five o'clock in an after- 
noon — a fact of which it is to be presumed that Mr. Brooke 
was aware. 

So you have come back to town ? ” she said, rising to 
meet him, and extending both hands with a pretty air of 
appropriative friendship. 


3 


34 BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 

“ Yes ; but I hardly expected to find you here so 
early.’’ 

Mrs. Romaine shrugged her shoulders a little. 

‘•'I found the country very dull,” she said. “And 
you ? ” 

“ Oh, I went to Norway. I was well enough off. I 
rather enjoyed myself. Perhaps I required a little bracing 
up for the task that lies before me.” He laughed as he 
spoke. 

Mrs. Romaine paused for a moment in her task of pour- 
ing out the tea. 

You are resolved, then, to assume that responsibili- 
ty ? ” she said, in a low voice. 

“ My dear Rosalind ! it’s in the bond,” answered Caspar 
Brooke, very coolly. 

He took the cup from her hand, stirred its contents, 
and proceeded to drink them in a leisurely manner, 
glancing at his hostess meanwhile, with a quiet smile. 

Mrs. Romaine’s dark eyes dropped before that glance. 
There was an inscrutable look upon her face, but it was a 
look that would have told another woman that Mrs. Ro- 
maine was disappointed by the news which she had just 
heard. Caspar Brooke, being a man, saw nothing. 

“ I am sorry,” Mrs. Romaine said presently, with an as- 
sumption of great candor. “ I am afraid you will have an 
uncomfortable time.” 

“ Oh, no,” he answered, with indifference. “ I shall not 
be uncomfortable, because it will not affect me in the least. 
When I spoke of bracing myself for the task, I was in jest.” 
Mrs. Romaine did not believe this statement. “ I shall go 
my own way whether the girl is in the house or not.” 

“ Why, then, did you insist on this arrangement ? ” 

“ It is only right to give the girl a chance,” said Mr. 
Brooke. “ If she has any grit in her the next twelve 
months will bring it out. Besides, it is simple justice. She 
ought to see and judge for herself. If she decides — as her 
mother did — that I am an ogre, she can go back to her 
aristocratic friends in the North. I shall not try to keep 
her.” There was the suspicion of a grim sneer on his face 
as he spoke. 

“ Do you know what she is like ? ” 

“ Yes ; I saw her one day in Paris. She did not know, 
of course, that I was watching her. She is like her 
mother.” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


35 


The tone was unpromising. But perhaps it would have 
been as well if Rosalind Romaine had not murmured so 
pityingly— 

My poor friend ! What you have suffered — and oh, 
what you will suffer ! 

Brooke looked at her in silence, and his eyes softened. 
Mrs. Romaine seemed to him at that moment the incar- 
nation of all that was sweet and womanly. She was slender, 
pale, graceful : she had velvety dark eyes and picturesque 
curling hair, cut short like a Florentine boy^s. Her dress 
was harmonious in color and design ; her attitude was 
charming, her voice most musical. It crossed Mr. 
Brooke's mind, as it had crossed his mind before, that he 
might have been very happy if Providence had sent him a 
wife like Rosalind Romaine. 

I shall not suffer,’^ he said, after a little silence, 
because I will not suffer. My daughter will live for a 
year in my house, but she will not trouble my peace, I can 
assure you. She will go her own way, and I shall go 
mine." 

I am afraid that she will not be so passive as you 
think," said Mrs. Romaine, with some hesitation. “ She 
has been brought up in a very different school from any 
that you would recommend. A girl fresh from a French 
convent is not an easy person to deal with. Whatever 
may be the advantages of these convents, there are certain 
virtues which are not inculcated in them." 

Such as " 

‘‘ Truth and honesty, Caspar, my friend. Your daugh- 
ter’s accomplishments will not include candor, I fear." 

Mr. Brooke was silent for a moment, his face expressing 
more concern than he knew. Mrs. Romaine watched him 
furtively. 

It may be so," he said at last in a rather heavy tone, 
but it can’t be helped. I had no hand in choosing a 
school for her, Rosalind ’’ — his voice took a pleading tone 
■ — you will do your best for her ? You will be her friend 
in spite of defects in her training ? ’’ 

I will do anything that I can. But you will forgive me 
for saying, Caspar, that it is hard for me to forget that she 
is the daughter of the woman who — practically — wrecked 
your life." 

Brooke’s face grew hard again. He uttered a short 
laugh, which had not a very agreeable sound. 


36 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


‘‘ Wrecked my life ! ” he repeated, disdainfully. 
“ Excuse me, Rosalind. No woman ever had the power 
of wrecking my life. Indeed, I have been far more fortu- 
nate and prosperous since Lady Alice chose to leave me 
than before.” 

Mrs. Romaine said nothing. She was an adept in the 
art of insinuating by a look, a turn of the head, a gesture, 
what she wished to convey. At this moment she in- 
dicated very clearly, though without speaking a word, that 
she sympathized deeply with her friend, Caspar Brooke, 
and was exceedingly indignant at the way in which he had 
been treated. 

Perhaps Mr. Brooke found the atmosphere enervating, 
for with a half smile and shake of the head, he rose up to 
go. *Mrs. Romaine rose also. 

She comes to-morrow evening,” he said, before he took 
his leave. 

‘‘To-morrow evening ? You will be out ! ” 

“No, it is Wednesday: I can manage an evening at 
home. Perhaps you will kindly look in on Thursday after- 
noon ? ” 

And this Mrs. Romaine undertook to do. 

Caspar Brooke continued his walk along the Eastern 
side of Russell Square and Woburn Place. His quick 
observant eyes took note of every incident in his way, of 
every man, woman, and child within their range of vision. 
He stopped once to rate a cabman, not too mildly, for 
beating an over-worked horse — took down his number, and 
threatened to prosecute him for cruelty to animals. A 
ragged boy who asked him for money was brought to a 
standstill by some keenly-worded questions respecting his 
home, his name, his father’s occupation, and the school 
which he attended. Of these Mr. Brooke also made a note, 
much to the boy’s dismay ; but consolation followed in the 
shape of a shilling, although the donor muttered a maledic- 
tion on his own folly as he turned away. His last actions, 
before reaching his own house in Upper Woburn Place, 
were — first to ring the area-bell for a dog that was waiting 
at another man’s gate (an office which the charitable are 
often called upon to perform in the streets of London for 
dogs and cats alike), and then to pick up a bony black 
kitten and take it on his arm to his own door, where he 
delivered it to a servant, with injunctions to feed and 


BROOKE’S DAUGHTER. 


37 


comfort the starveling. From which facts it may be seen 
that Mr. Caspar Brooke, in spite of all his faults, was a 
lover of dumb animals, and of children, and must therefore 
have possessed a certain amount of kindliness of disposi- 
tion. 

Mr. Brooke dined at six o^clock, then smoked a cigar 
and had a cup of black coffee brought to him in the untidy 
little sanctum where he generally did his work. With the 
coffee came the black kitten, which sidled up to him on 
the table, purring, and rubbing her head against his arm 
as if she knew him for a friend. He stroked it occasion- 
ally as he read his evening papers, and stroked it in the 
caressing way which cats love, from its forehead to the 
tip of its stumpy tail. It was while he was thus engaged- 
that a tap at the door was heard, and the tap was followed 
by the entrance of a young man, who looked as if he 
were quite at home. 

“ Can I come in ? he said, in a perfunctory sort of 
way ; and then, without waiting for any reply, went on — 
I’ve no engagement to-niglit, so I thought I would look 
in here first, and see whether you had started.” 

All right. Where have you been ? ” 

Special meeting — Church and State Union,” said the 
young man with a smile. ‘‘ I went partly in a medical 
capacity, partly because I was curious to know how they 
managed to unite the two professions.” 

Couldn’t your sister tell you ? ” 

Oh, I don’t allow Ethel to attend such mixed gather- 
ings,” said the visitor, seating himself on the edge of the 
library table, and beginning to play with the cat. 

‘‘You are unusually particular,” said Mr. Brooke, with 
an amused look. But Maurice Kenyon, as the visitor was 
named, continued to attract the kitten’s notice, without the 
answering protest which Caspar Brooke had expected. 

Maurice Kenyon was nearly thirty, and had stepped by 
good fortune into the shoes of a medical uncle who had 
left him a large and increasing general practice in the 
West Central district. The young man’s popularity was 
not entirely owing to his skill, although he had an exceed- 
ingly good repute among his brethren in medicine. Neither 
was it attributable to good looks. He owed it rather to a 
sympathetic manner, to the cheerful candor of his dark 
grey eyes, to the mixture of firmness and delicate kindness 


38 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


by which his treatment of his patients was characterized. 
He was especially successful in his dealings with children \ 
and he had therefore a good deal of adoration from grate- 
ful mothers to put up with. But of his skill and intellec- 
tual power there could be no doubt ; and these qualities, 
coupled with his winning manner, bade fair to raise him to 
a very high place in his profession. 

There was one little check, and one only, to the flow of 
Mr. Kenyon’s prosperity. Careful mothers occasionally 
objected that he was not married, and that his sister was 
an actress. Why did he let his sister go on the stage ? 
And why, if she was an actress, did he allow her to live in 
his house? It did not seem quite respectable in the eyes 
of some worthy people that these things should be. But 
Mr. Kenyon only laughed when reports of these sayings 
reached him, and went on his way unmoved, as his sister 
Ethel went on hers. And in London, the question of a 
doctor’s relations, his sisters, his cousins, his aunts, and 
what they do for a living, is not so important as it is in the 
country. Maurice Kenyon’s care of his sister, and her 
devotion to him, were well known by all their friends ; and 
as he sometimes said, it mattered very little to him what 
all the rest of the world might think. 

‘‘Talking of your sister, Kenyon,” said Mr. Brooke, 
somewhat abruptly, “ I suppose you know that my daugh- 
ter comes to me to-morrow ? ” 

The connection of ideas was not, perhaps, very obvious, 
but Maurice Kenyon nodded as if he understood. 

“I suppose she will want a companion. Would Ethel 
be so kind as to call ’on her ? ” 

“ Certainly. She will do all she can for Miss Brooke, 
I am sure.” 

“ I have been speaking to Mrs. Romaine, too.” 

'‘''Have you?” Kenyon raised his eyebrows a very 
little, but Mr. Brooke did not seem to notice the change 
of expression. 

“ — And she promises to do what she can ; but a woman 
like Mrs. Romaine is not likely to find many subjects in 
common with a girl fresh from a convent.” 

“ I suppose not ” — in the driest of tones. 

“ Mrs. Romaine,” said Brooke, in a more decided tone, 
“ is a cultivated woman who has made a mark in litera- 
ture ” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


39 


In literature ? queried the doctor. 

She has written a novel or two. She writes for various 
papers — well and smartly, I believe. She is a thorough 
woman of the world. Naturally, a girl brought up as 
Lesley has been will 

— Will find her detestable,” said Kenyon, briskly, ‘Las 
I and Ethel do. You’ll excuse this expression of opinion ; 
you've heard it before.” 

For a moment Caspar Brooke’s face was overcast ; then 
he broke into uneasy laughter, and rose from his chair, 
shaking himself a little as a big dog sometimes does when 
it comes out of the water. 

You are incorrigible,” he said. “ A veritable heretic 
on the matter of my friend, Mrs. Romaine. By the by, I 
must remind you, Kenyon, that Mrs. Romaine is a very 
old friend of mine.’' 

His manner changed slightly as he spoke. There was 
a little touch of quiet hauteur in his look and tone, as if he 
wished to repel unsolicited criticism. Maurice understood 
the man too well to be offended, and merely changed the 
subject. 

But when, after half an hour's chat, the young doctor 
left the house, his mind '•everted to the topic which Mr. 
Brooke had broached. 

“ Mrs. Romaine, indeed ! Why, the mail’s mad — to 
introduce her as a friend to his daughter ! Does not all 
the world know that Mrs. Romaine caused the separation 
between him and his wife ? And will the poor girl know ? 
or has she been kept in the dark completely as to the state 
of affairs ? Upon my word I'm sorry for her. It strikes 
me that she will have a hard row to hoe, if Mrs. Romaine 
is at her father's ear.” 


40 


BROOKES DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER V. 

/ 

OLIVER. 

Mr. Brooke had not long quitted Mrs. Romaine’s draw- 
ing-room when it was entered by another man, whose 
personal resemblance to Mrs. Romaine herself was so 
striking that there could be little douBt as to their close 
relationship to one another. It was one of those curious 
likenesses that exist and thrive upon difference. Rosalind 
was not tall, and she was undeniably plump ; while her 
younger brother, Oliver Trent, was above middle height, 
and of a spare habit. The creamy white of Mrs. Ro- 
maine's complexion had turned to deadly pallor in Oliver’s 
thin, hairless face : and her most striking features were 
accentuated, and even exaggerated in his. Her arched 
and mobile eyebrows, her dark eyes, her broad nostrils, 
curved mouth, and finely-shaped chin, were all to be found, 
with a subtle unlikeness, in Oliver’s face, and the jetty 
hair, short as it was on the man’s head, grew low down on 
the brow and the nape of the neck exactly as hers did — al- 
though this resemblance was obscured by the fact that 
Rosalind wore a fringe, and carefully curled all the short 
hairs at the back of her head. 

The greatest difference of all lay in the expression of the 
two faces. Mrs. Romaine had certainly no frankness in 
her countenance, but she had plenty of smiling pleasant- 
ness and play of emotion. Oliver’s face was like a sullen 
mask : it was motionless, stolid even, and iinamiable. 
There were people who raved about his beauty, and nick- 
named him Antinous and Adonis. But these were not 
physiognomists. 

Mrs. Romaine had two brothers, both some years 
younger than herself. Oliver, the youngest and her favor- 
ite, was about thirty, and called himself a barrister. As 
he had no briefs, however, it was currently reported that 
he lived by means of light literature, play, and judicious 
sponging upon his sister. The elder brother, Francis, was 
a ne’er-do-weel, and seldom appeared upon the scene 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


41 


When he did appear, it was always a sign of trouble and 
want of cash. 

So you have had Brooke here again ? ” Oliver inquired. 

** How did you know, Noll ? ” 

She turned her dark eyes upon him rather anxiously. 
Oliver’s views and opinions were of consequence to her. 

I saw him come in. I was coming up, but I turned 
round again and went away. Had a smoke in the Square 
till I saw him come out. Didn’t want to spoil your little 
game, whatever it was.” 

He spoke with a kind of soft drawl, not unpleasing to 
the ear at first, but irritating if too long continued. It 
seemed to irritate his sister now. She tapped impatiently 
on the floor with her toe as she replied — 

How vulgar you are sometimes, Oliver ! But all 
society is vulgar now-a-days, and I suppose one ought not 
to complain. I have no ‘ little game,’ as you express it, 
and there was not the slightest need for you to have stayed 
away.” 

Oliver was sitting on a sofa, with his elbows on his 
knees and the tips of his long white fingers meeting each 
other. When Mrs. Romaine ended her petulant little 
speech he turned his dark eyes upon her and smiled. He 
said nothing, however, and his silence offended his sister 
even more than his speech. 

It is easy to see that you do not believe me,” she said, 
and I think it is very rude of you to be so sceptical. If 
you have any remarks to make on the subject pray make 
them at once.” 

‘‘ My dear Rosy, I have no remarks to make at all,” 
said Oliver, easily. Take your own way and I shall 
take mine. You are good enough to give me plenty of 
rope, and I should be uncivil indeed if I commented on the 
length of yours.” 

Mrs. Romaine had been moving restlessly to and fro : 
she now stood still, on the hearthrug, her hands clasped 
before her, her face turned attentively towards her brother. 
Evidently she was struck by his words. 

“ If you would speak out,’' she said at last, her smooth 
voice vibrating as if he had touched some chord of passion 
which was usually hushed to silence, I should know 
better what you mean. You deal too much in hints and 
insinuations. You have said things of this sort before. I 
must know what you mean.” 


4± 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


‘‘ Come, Rosy,” said Oliver, rising from his low seat and 
confronting her, “ don’t be so tragic — so intense. Plump 
little women like you shouldn’t go in for tragedy. Smile, 
Rosy ; it is your 7netier to smile. You have won a good 
many games by smiling. You must smile on now — to the 
bitter end.” 

He smiled himself as he looked at her — an unpleasant 
smile, with thin lips drawn back from white sharp looking 
teeth, which gave him the air of a snarling dog. Mrs. 
Romaine’s face belied his words. It was tragic enough, 
intense enough, for a woman who had known mortal 
agony ; the suggestion of placidity usually given by her 
smiling lips and rounded unwrinkled cheeks had disap- 
peared ; she might have stood for an impersonation of 
sorrow and despair. Oliver’s mocking voice recalled her 
to herself. 

‘‘ A very good pose, Rosalind. The Tragic Muse in- 
deed. Are you going to rival Ethel Kenyon ? I am 
afraid it is rather late for you to go on the stage, that’s all. 
Let me see : you have touched forty, have you not ? I 
would acknowledge only thirty-nine if I were you. There 
is more than a year’s difference between thirty-nine and 
forty.” 

The strained muscles of her face relaxed : she made a 
a little impatient gesture with her hands, then turned to 
the fireplace, and with one arm upon the mantelpiece, 
looked down into the fire. 

“You drive me nearly mad sometimes, Oliver,” she said, 
in a low, passionate voice, “ by your habit of saying only 
half a thing at a time. I know well enough that you are 
remonstrating with me now : that you disapprove of some- 
thing — and will not tell me what. By and by, if I am in 
trouble or perplexity, you will turn round upon me and 
say that you warned me — told me that you disapproved — 
or something of that sort. You always do it, and it is not 
fair. Innuendoes are not warnings.” 

“ My dear Rosalind,” said her brother, coolly, “ I hope 
I know my place. I’m ten years younger than you are, 
and have been at various times much indebted to your 
generosity. It does not become me to take exception at 
anything that girls may like to do.” 

He had the exasperating habit of treating kindness to 
himself with an air of condescension, as if he conferred a 


BROCKETS Daughter. 


43 


favor by accepting benefits. His smile of superiority hurt 
Mrs. Romaine. 

“ When you adopt that tone, Oliver, I hate you ! ” she 
cried. 

You are very impulsive, Rosy — in spite of your years,” 
said Oliver, with his usual quietness. ‘‘ I assure you I do 
not wish to interfere ; and you must set it down to 
brotherly affection if I sometimes feel inclined to wonder 
vthat you mean to do.” 

“To do ? ” she queried, looking round at him. 

“Yes, to do. I don’t understand you, that is all. Of 
course, ii is not necessary that I should understand.” 

Mrs. Romaine did not often change color, but she 
flushed scarlet now, and was glad for a moment that the 
room was almost dark. Yet, as her brother stood close to 
her, and the fire was sending up fitful flashes of ruddy 
light, she felt certain, on reflection, that he had seen that 
blush. This certainly imparted some humility to her voice 
as she spoke again. 

“ You know, Oliver, that I always like you to approve 
of what I am doing. I like you to understand. Of course, 
whatever I do, it is partly for your sake.” 

Is it ? ” said Oliver, with a laugh. “ I shouldn’t have 
thought it. As far as I can judge, you have been very 
careful to please yourself all through.” 

There was a little silence. Then she said, in a low tone, 

“ How have I pleased myself, I should like to know ? ” 

‘^Do you want a plain statement cf fac'-s? Well, my 
dear, you know them as well as I do, though perhaps you 
do not know the light in which they present themselves to 
me. We three, you and Francis and I, were left to earn 
our own living at a somewhat early age. Francis became 
a banker’s clerk, and you took to literature and governess- 
ing and general popularity. By a very clever stroke you 
managed to induce Professor Romaine to marry you. He 
was fifty and you were twenty-four. You did very well for 
yourself — twisted him round your little finger, and got 
him to leave you all his money ; but really I do not see 
how this could be said to be for my sake.” 

“ Then you are very ungrateful, Oliver. You were a boy 
of fourteen when I married, and what would you have 
done but for Mr. Romaine and myself? ” 

“You forget, my dear,” said Oliver, smoothly, “that I 
was never exactly dependent on you for a livelihood. I 


44 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


took scholarships at school and college, and there was a 
certain sum of money invested in the Funds for my other 
expenses. It was perhaps not a large sum, but it was 
enough. I have to thank you for some very pleasant 
weeks at your house during the holidays ; but there was 
really no necessity for you to marry Peter Romaine in 
order to provide for my holidays.’^ 

She winced under his tone of banter, but did not speak. 
She seemed resolved to let him say what he liked. Rosa- 
lind Romaine might not be perfect in all relations of life, 
but she was certainly a good sister. 

“ When a few years had elapsed,’^ her brother went on, 
in a light narrative tone, I’ll grant that Romaine was of 
considerable service to us. He got Francis out of several 
scrapes, and he shoved me into a Government office, 
where the duties are not particularly onerous. Oh, yes, I 
owe some thanks to Romaine.” 

‘‘ And none to me for marrying him ? ” 

Oliver laughed. ‘‘ My dear Rosy,” he said, I have 
mentioned before that I consider you married him to 
please yourself.” 

She shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing more. 

“ Romaine became useful to me, of course,” said Oliver, 
reflectively ; ‘‘ and then came the first extraordinary 
hitch. We met the Brookes — how many years ago — 
nearly twelve, I suppose ; and you formed a gushing 
friendship with Lady Alice Brooke and her husband, 
especially with her husband.” 

‘‘ Why do you rake up these old stories ? ” 

Because I want to understand your position. You 
amazed me then, and you seem more than ever disposed 
to amaze me now. You were attracted by Caspar Brooke 
— heaven knows why ! and you made no secret of the fact. 
You liked the man, and he liked you. I don’t know how 
far the friendship went ” 

‘‘There was nothing in it but the most ordinary, inno- 
cent acquaintanceship ! ” 

“ Lady Alice did not think so. Lady Alice made a 
devil of a row about it, as far as I understand. Everyone 
who knows the story blames you, Rosalind, for the quarrel 
and separation between husband and wife.” 

“ It was not my fault.” 

“ Oh, was it not ? Well, perhaps not. At any rate, 
the husband and wife separated quietly, twelve years ago. 


BROOKE DA UGHTER, 45 

I don^t know whether you hoped that Brooke would give 
his wife any justification for her suspicions ” 

Oliver, you are brutal ! You insult me ! I have never 
given you reason to think so ill of me.” 

I think of you,” said Oliver, slowly, only as I think 
of all women. I don’t suppose you are better or worse 
than the rest. As it happened the whole thing seemed to 
die down after that separation. Romaine whisked you off 
to Calcutta with him. Then he fell ill, and you had to 
nurse him : you and your friend Brooke did not often 
meet. Then your husband died, after a long illness, and 
you came here again three years ago — for what object ? ” 

‘‘ I had no object but that of living in a part of London 
which was familiar to me — and of being amongst friends. 
You have no right at all to call me to account in this 
way.” 

So I said a few minutes ago. But you remarked that 
you wished me to understand and approve of your pro- 
ceedings. I am only trying to get at your motives — if 
you have any.” 

Mrs. Romaine was tempted to say that she had no mo- 
tives. But she did not think that Oliver would believe 
her. 

“ Here you are,” he went on, in his soft, slow voice, 
in friendly — I might say familiar — relations with this 
man again. His wife is still living, and as bitter against 
him as ever, but not likely to give him any pretext for a 
divorce. You cannot marry him. Why do you provoke 
people to say ill-natured things about you by continuing 
so aimless a friendship ? ” 

I don’t think that any one would take the trouble of 
saying ill-natured things about me, Oliver,” said Mrs. Ro- 
maine, forcing a smile. We are too conventional, too 
advanced, now-a-days, for that kind of thing. Friendship 
between a man and woman is by no means the abnormal 
and unheard-of thing that it used to be.” 

‘‘ You are not so free as you think you are. You are 
still good-looking — still young. You cannot afford to 
defy the world. And I cannot afford to defy it either. I 
don't mind a reasonable amount of laxity, but I do not 
want my sister to be the heroine of a scandal.” 

I think you might trust me to take care of myself.” 

I would not say a word if Brooke were a widower. 
Although I don’t like him, I acknowledge that he is the 


46 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


sort of big blundering brute that suits some women. But 
there’s no chance with him, so why should you make a 
fool of yourself.^ ” 

Mrs. Romaine turned round with a fierce little gesture 
of contradiction, but restrained herself, and did nqt speak 
for a minute or two. 

‘‘What do you want me to do?” she said at last, in 
rather a breathless kind of way. 

‘ Well, my dear Rosy, since you ask me, I should say 
that it would be far wiser to drop Brooke’s acquaintance.” 

“That is impossible.” 

“ And why impossible ? ” 

“ His daughter is coming to him for a year : he has been 
here to-night to ask me to call on her — to chaperone her 
sometimes.” 

“ Is the man a fool ? ” said Oliver. 

“ I think,” Mrs. Romaine answered, somewhat un- 
steadily, “ that Mr. Brooke never knew — exactly — that his 
wife was jealous of me.” 

“ Oh, that’s too much to say. He must have known.” 

“ I am pretty sure that he did not. From things that 
he has said to me, I feel certain that he attributed only a 
passing irritation to her on my account. You do not be- 
lieve me, Oliver ; but I think that he is perfectly ignorant 
of the real cause of her leaving him.’' 

“ And you know it ? ” 

“ I know it, and Lady Alice knows it : no one else.” 

“ What was it, then ? You mean more than simple 
jealousy, I see.” 

“Yes, but — I am not obliged to tell you what it was.” 

“ Oh, no. Keep your own counsel, by all means. But 
you are placing yourself in a very risky position. Lady Alice 
Brooke knows something that would, I suppose, compromise 
you in the world’s eyes, if it were generally known. Her 
daughter is coming to Brooke’s house. You mean — you 
seriously mean — to go to his house and visit this girl? 
thereby offending her mother (who is sure to hear of the 
visit) and bringing down the ill-will of all the Courtleroys 
upon your head ? Have you no regard for your character 
and your position in the world ? You are risking both, 
and you have nothing to gain.” 

“ Yes, I have.” 

“What is it?” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


47 


I cannot tell you.” 

You mean you will not tell me ? ’’ 

Perhaps so.” 

Oliver Trent deliberately took a match-box from the 
mantelpiece, struck a match, and lighted a wax candle. ‘‘ I 
should like to see your face,” he said. 

Rosalind looked at him fully and steadily for a few 
seconds ; then her eyelids fell, and for the second time 
that evening the color mounted in her pale cheeks. 

I think that I know the truth,’’ said her brother, com- 
posedly, after a careful study of her face. You are mad, 
Rosalind, and you will live to rue that madness.” 

I don’t know what you mean,” she said, turning away 
from the light of the candle. You speak in riddles.” 

I will speak in riddles, then, no longer. I will be very 
plain with you. Rosalind, you are in love with Caspar 
Brooke.” 

She sank down on a low chair as if her limbs would 
support her no longer, and rested her face upon her hands. 

‘‘ No,” she said, in a low voice, ‘‘you are wrong : I do 
not love Caspar Brooke.” 

“ What other motive can you have ? ” 

She waited for a moment, and then said, still softly — 

I suppose I may as well tell you. I loved him once. 
In those first days of our acquaintance — when he was 
disappointed in his wife and seeking for sympathy else- 
where — I thought that he cared for me. I was mistaken. 
Oliver, can you keep my secret ? No other soul in the 
world knows of this from me but you. I told him my 
love. I wrote to him — a wild, mad letter — offering to fly 
to the ends of the earth with him if he would go.” 

Oliver stared at her as if he could not believe his ears. 

“ And what answer did he make ? ” 

“ He made none — because he never saw it. That letter 
fell into Lady Alice’s hands. She did not know that it 
was the first that had been written : she took it to be one 
of a series. She wrote a short note to me about it ; and 
the next thing I heard was that she had gone. But I 
know that he never saw that letter of mine.” 

“ All this,” said Oliver, in a hard contemptuous voice, 
“ does not explain your present line of conduct.” 

She lifted her face from her hands. “ Yes, it does,” she 
said quickly. “ If you were a woman you would under- 


48 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


stand ! Do you think I want her to come back to him 
No, if he cannot make me happy, he shall not be happy 
at her side. I shall never forgive her for the words she 
wrote to me ! If her daughter comes, Oliver, it is all the 
more reason why I should be here, ready to nip any notion 
of reconciliation in the bud. It is hate, not love, that 
dominates me : it is in my hatred for Caspar Brooke's wife 
that you must seek the explanation of my actions. Now^ 
do you understand ? " 

I understand enough," said Oliver, drily. 

‘‘ And you will not interfere ? " 

‘‘ For the present I will not interfere. But I will not 
bind myself. I must see more of what you are doing be- 
fore I make any promises. Whatever you do, you must 
not compromise yourself or me.’' 

Hate ! " he repeated to himself scornfully as he left the 
house at a somewhat later hour in the evening. It is all 
very well to put it down to her hate for Lady Alice. She 
is still in love with Brooke j and that is the beginning and 
the end of it." 

And Oliver was not far wrong. 


BROOKE'S BA KG //TER, 


49 


CHAPTER VL 

LESLEY COMES HOME. 

Caspar Brooke was a busy man, and he was quite deter- 
mined that his daughter’s arrival should make no difference 
in his habits. In this determination he was less selfish 
than stern : he had reason to believe that his wife’s treat- 
ment of him proceeded from folly and fickleness, and that 
his daughter had inherited her foibles. It was not worth 
while, he said to himself, to make any radical change in his 
way of life : Lesley must accommodate herself, if she could, 
to his habits ; and if she could not, she must go back to 
her mother. He was not prepared, he told himself, to alter 
his hours, or his friendships, or his peculiarities one whit 
for Lesley’s sake. 

Lesley arrived an hour later than the time at which she 
had been expected. It was nearly eight o’clock when her 
cab stopped at the door of the house in Upper Woburn 
Place, and the evening was foggy and cold. To Lesley, 
fresh from the clear skies and air of a French city, street, 
house, and atmosphere alike seemed depressing. The 
chimes of St. Pancras’ church, woefully out of tune, fell on 
her ear, and made her shiver as she mounted the steps that 
led to the front door. How dear they were to grow to her 
in time she did not then suspect, nor would have easily 
believed ! At present their discordance was part of the 
general discordance of all things, and increased the weight 
of dejection which lay upon her. Her mother’s maid had 
orders to deliver her over to Mr. Brooke and then to come 
away : she was not to spend an hour in the house, nor to 
partake of food within its walls. She had strict orders 
from Lady Alice on this point. 

The house was a very good house, as London dwellings 
go ; but to Lesley’s eyes it looked strangely mean and 
narrow. It was very tall, and the front was painted a 
chocolate brown. The double front doors, which opened 
to admit Lesley’s boxes, showed an ordinary London hall, 

4 


50 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


narrow, crowded with an oaken chest, an umbrella and hat 
stand, and lighted by a flaring gas lamp. At these doors 
two persons showed themselves ; a neat but hard-featured 
maid-servant, and a lady of uncertain age, whom Lesley 
correctly guessed to be his sister and housekeeper. Miss 
Brooke. There was no sign of her father. 

Is this Mr. Brooke’s house ? ” inquired Dayman, for- 
mally. She used to know Mr. Brooke by sight, for she had 
lived with Lady Alice for many years. 

Yes, this is the house, and this is his daughter, I sup- 
pose?’’ said Miss Brooke, coming forward, and taking 
Lesley’s limp hand in hers. Miss Brooke had a keen, 
clever, honest face, but she was undeniably plain, and 
Lesley was not in a condition to appreciate the kindness 
of her glance. 

I must see Mr. Brooke himself before I leave my young 
lady,” Dayman announced. 

“ Run and fetch your master, Sarah,” said Miss Brooke, 
quickly. ‘‘ He cannot have heard the cab.” 

The white aproned servant disappeared into the back 
premises, and thence, in a moment or two, issued Mr. 
Caspar Brooke himself, at the sight of whom Miss 
Brooke involuntarily frowned and bit her lip. She saw 
at one glance that Caspar was in his study-coat,” 
that his hair was dishevelled, and that he had just laid 
down his pipe. These were small details in themselves, 
but they meant a good deal. They meant that Caspar 
Brooke would not do a single thing, would not go a single 
step out of his way, to conciliate the affections of Lady 
Alice’s daughter. He had never in his life looked more of 
a Bohemian than he did just then. And Miss Brooke sus- 
pected him of wilful perversity. 

The lights swam before Lesley’s eyes. The vision of a 
big, brown-bearded man, bigger and broader, it seemed to 
her, than any man she had ever spoken to before, took 
away her senses. As he came up to her she involuntarily 
shrank back ; and when he stooped to kiss her, the novel 
sensation of his bristly beard against her face, the strong 
scent of tobacco, and the sense that she was unwelcome, 
all contributed towards complete self-betrayal. Dizzy from 
her voyage ; faint, sick, and unhinged, she almost pushed 
him away from her and sank down on a hall-chair with a 
burst of sobbing which she could not control. She was 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


51 


terribly ashamed of herself next moment ; but the next 
moment was too late. She had made as bad a beginning 
as she had it in her power to make, and no after-apology 
could alter what was done. 

For a moment a dead silence fell on the little group. 
Miss Brooke heard her brother mutter something beneath 
his breath in a very angry tone. She wondered whether 
his daughter heard it too. The faithful and officious Day- 
man immediately pressed forward with soothing words and 
offers of help. 

“ There, there, my dear young lady, don^t take on so. 
Il won’t be for long, remember ; and I’ll come for you again 

to take you back to your mamma ” 

You had better leave her alone. Dayman,” said Mr. 
Brooke, coldly. She will probably be more reasonable 
by and bye.^’ 

Lesley was on her feet again in a moment. I am not 
unreasonable,” she said distinctly, but with a little catch 
in her voice ; it is only that I am tired and upset with the 
journey — and the sudden light was too much for me. Give 
mamma my love, Dayman, and say that I am very well.” 

“ Are the boxes all in ? ” asked Mr. Brooke. We need 
not detain you, Mrs. Dayman.” 

Dayman turned and dropped him a mocking curtsey. 

I have my orders from my mistress, sir. Having seen 
the young lady safe into your hands, I will go back to my 
lady at the railway station, where she now is, and tell her 
how she was received.” 

Miss Brooke, glancing anxiously at her brother, saw him 
bite his lip and frown. He did not speak, but he pointed 
to the door in a manner which Dayman did not see fit to 
disobey. 

Good-bye, Miss Lesley — and I’ll look forward to the 
day when I see you back again,” said the maid, in a tone 
of profound commiseration. 

“ Good-bye, Dayman, give my love to mamma,” said 
Lesley. She would dearly have liked to add, Don’t tell 
her that I cried ; ” but with that circle of unsympathetic 
faces round her, she did not dare. She pressed her lips 
together, dashed the tears from her eyes, and managed to 
smile, however, as Dayman took her departure. 

Meanwhile, Miss Brooke had quietly sent the maid for 
a glass of wine, which she administered to the girl without 


52 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


further ado. Lesley drank it obediently, and felt reinvi- 
gorated : but although her courage rose, her spirit remained 
sadly low as she looked at her father^s face, and saw that 
it wore an uncompromising frown. 

‘‘ You had better have these boxes carried upstairs as 
soon as possible,’’ he remarked to his sister. ‘‘ I will say 
good-night now : I have to go out.” 

He turned away rather brusquely, and went back into 
his study, which was situated behind the dining-room, on 
the ground-floor. Lesley looked after him helplessly, with 
a mingled feeling of offence and relief. She did not see 
him again, but was conveyed to her room by Miss Brooke, 
who spoke to her kindly indeed, but with a matter-of-fact 
directness which seemed hard and cold to the convent-bred 
girl, whose teachers and guardians had vied with one 
another in sugared sweetness and a tutored amiability of 
demeanor. 

Lesley was taken up two flights of stairs to a room which 
seemed close and stuffy to her, although in English eyes it 
might be deemed comfortable and even luxurious. But 
padded arm-chairs and couch, eider-down silken-covered 
quilts, cushions, curtains, and carpets, were things of which 
she had as yet no great appreciation. The room seemed 
to her altogether too full of furniture, and she longed to 
run to the window for a breath of fresh air. Miss Brooke, 
observing how white she looked, asked her if she felt 
faint. 

No, thank you ; I am only tired,” said Lesley. 

‘‘ You would like some tea, perhaps ? ” 

Thank you,” said the girl, rather hesitatingly. No- 
body drank tea at the convent, and in her visits to Lady 
Alice she had not cultivated a taste for it. I think I 
would rather go to bed.” 

You must have something to eat before you go,” said 
Miss Brooke, drily. ‘‘ Here, let me feel your pulse. Yes, 
you need food, and I’ll send you up a soothing draught as 
well. You need not look so astonished, my dear ; don’t 
you know that I’m a doctor? ” 

‘‘ A doctor ! You Lesley looked round the room as 
if seeking for some place in which to hide from such a 
monstrosity. 

“ Yes, a doctor — a lady doctor,” said Miss Brooke, with 
grim but not unmirthful emphasis. “ You never saw me 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


53 


before, did you? Well, I’m not in general practice just 
now ; my health would not stand it, so I am keeping my 
brother’s house instead ; but I am fully qualified, my dear, 
I assure you, and can prescribe for you if you are ill as 
well as any physician in the land.” 

She laughed as she spoke, and there was a humorous 
twinkle in her shrewd, kindly eyes, which Lesley did not 
understand. As a matter of fact, her innocent horror and 
amaze tickled Miss Brooke immensely. It was evident 
that this girl, with her foreign, aristocratic, and Catholic 
training knew nothing at all of the strides that have of late 
been made in the direction of female emancipation ; and 
her ignorance was amusing to Miss Brooke, who was one 
of the foremost champions of the woman’s cause. Miss 
Sophia Brooke, whose name was on every committee under 
the sun, who spoke at meetings and wrote half a dozen 
letters after her name, to have a niece who had never met 
a lady doctor in her life before, and probably did not know 
anything at all about women’s franchise ! It was quite 
too funny, and Miss Brooke — or Doctor Brooke, as she 
liked better to be called — was genuinely amused. But it 
was not an amusing matter to Lesley, who felt as if the 
foundations of the solid world were shaking underneath 
her. 

If she had heard of women doctors at all it was in terms 
of bitterest reprobation : she had been told that they were 
not persons of respectability, that they were “ without the 
pale,” and she had believed all she was told. And here 
she was, shut up for a year with a woman of the very class 
that she had been taught to reprobate — a woman, too, who, 
although no longer young, had a face which was pleasant 
to look upon, because it expressed refinement and kindli- 
ness as well as intellectual power, and whose dress, though 
plain, was severely neat, well-fitting, and of rich material. 
In fact. Miss Brooke was so unlike anything in the shape 
of womankind that Lesley had ever encountered, that the 
girl could only gaze at her in speechless amazement, and 
wonder whether she was expected to develop into some- 
thing of the same sort ! 

She could not deny, however, that her aunt was very 
good-natured. Miss Brooke helped her to undress, put 
her to bed, unpacked her boxes in about half the time that 
a maid would have taken to do the work ; then she brought 


54 


BROOKE DAUGHTER. 


lier something to eat and drink, and waited on her with 
the care of a woman with a truly kindly heart. Lesley be- 
gan to take courage and to ask questions. 

I suppose I shall see my father again to-morrow morn- 
ing,’’ she said. 

“ About mid-day you may see him,” Miss Brooke an- 
swered, cheerfully. “ He will be out till two or three in 
the morning, you know ; and of course he can’t be dis- 
turbed very early. You must remember that we keep the 
house very quiet until eleven or twelve, when he generally 
comes down. He breakfasts then, and goes out.” 

Lesley was mystified. Why did her father keep such 
extraordinary hours? She had not the slightest notion 
that these were the usual arrangements of a journalist’s 
life. She thought that he must be very thoughtless, very 
self-indulgent, even very wicked. Surely her mother had 
been more than justified in leaving him. She laid her 
head upon the pillow, feeling rather inclined to cry. 

Miss Brooke had not much of a clue to her ’emotions ; 
but she was trying hard to fathom what was passing in the 
girl’s mind, and she came very near the mark. She stooped 
down and kissed her affectionately. 

‘‘ I daresay you feel lonely and strange, my dear,” she 
said ; “ but you must remember that you have come to 
your own home, and that we belong to you, and you to us. 
So you must put up with us for a time, and you may — 
eventually — come to like us, you know. Stranger things 
than that have happened before now.” 

Lesley put one arm round her aunt’s neck, undeterred 
by Miss Brooke’s laugh and the little struggle she made to 
get away. 

Thank you,” she said, for being so kind. I am sorry 
I cried when I came in.” 

‘‘You were hysterical and overwrought. I shall tell 
your father so.” 

“ You think he was vexed ? ” 

“ I suppose,” said Miss Brooke, “ that a man hardly 
likes to see his daughter burst out crying and shrink away 
when she first looks at him.” 

“ Oh, I was very stupid ! ” cried Lesley, remorsefully. 
“It must have looked so bad, and I did not mean any- 
thing — at least, I meant only ” 

“I understand all about it,” said her aunt, “and I shall 
tell your father what I think if he alludes to the matter. 


BROOKE 'S DA UGHTER, 55 

In the meantime you had better go to sleep, and wake up 
fresh and bright in the morning. Good-night, my dear.” 

And Lesley was left to her own reflections. 

Although she went early to bed she did not sleep soon 
or soundly. There was not much traffic along the street 
in which her father lived, but the bells of St. Pancras rang 
out the hours and the quarters with painful tunelessness, 
and an occasional rumble of wheels would startle her into 
wakeful terror. At half-past two in the morning she heard 
the opening and shutting of the front door, and her father's 
footsteps on the stairs as he came up to bed. There seemed 
to her something uncanny in these nocturnal habits. The 
life of a journalist, of a literary man, of anybody who did 
any definite work in the world at all, was quite unknown 
to her. 

She came down to breakfast at nine o’clock, feeling 
weary and depressed. Miss Brooke was kind but preoc- 
cupied ; she had a committee at twelve, she said, and an- 
other at four, so she would be obliged to leave Lesley for 
the greater part of the day. But you will have your own 
little arrangements to make you know,” she said, ‘‘ and 
Sarah will show you or tell you anything you want. You 
might as well fall into our ways as soon as you can.” 

‘‘ Oh, yes,” said Lesley. “ I only want to be no trouble.” 

You’ll be no trouble to anybody,” said Miss Brooke, 
cheerfully, so long as you find something to do, and do 
It. There’s a good library of books in the house, and a 
piano in the drawing-room ; and you ought to go out for 
an hour or two every day. I daresay you will be able to 
occupy yourself.” 

Is there any one to go out with me?” queried Lesley, 
timidly. She had never been out alone in the whole course 
of her life. 

Go out with you ? ” repeated Miss Brooke, rather 
rudely, though with kind intent. “ An able-bodied young 
woman of eighteen or nineteen surely can take care of her- 
self ! You are not in Paris now, my dear, you are in Lon- 
don ; and girls in London have to be independent and 
courageous.” 

Lesley felt that she was being somewhat unjustly judged, 
but she did not like to reply. And her aunt, conscious of 
having spoken sharply, became immediately more gentle 
in manner, and told her certain details about the arrange- 


5 ^ 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


ments of the house, which it behoved Lesley to know, with 
considerable thoughtfulness and kind feeling. 

Mr. Brooke usually rang for his coffee about half-past 
ten, and came down at half-past eleven. He then had 
breakfast served to him in the dining-room, and did not 
join his sister at luncheon at all. In the afternoon he 
walked out, or wrote, or saw friends ; dined at six, and 
went down to the office of his paper at eight. From the 
office he did not usually return until the small hours of the 
morning; and then, as Miss Brooke explained, he often 
sat up writing or reading for an hour or two longer. 

Why does he work so late ? ” asked Lesley, innocent- 
ly. I should have thought the day-time was pleasanter/* 

Miss Brooke gave a short, explosive laugh, fixed a pair 
of eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose, and looked at Les- 
ley as if she were a natural curiosity. 

‘‘ Have you yet to learn,” she said, that we don’t do 
what is pleasant in this life, but what we must ? ” 

Then she got up and went away from the breakfast-table, 
leaving Lesley ashamed and confounded. The girl leaned 
her elbows upon the white cloth, and furtively wiped a tear 
away from her eyes. She found herself in a new atmos- 
phere, and it did not seem to her a very congenial one. 
She was bewildered ; it did not appear possible that she 
could live for a year in a home of this very peculiar kind. 
To her uncultivated imagination, Mr. Brooke and his sis- 
ter looked to her like barbarians. She did not understand 
their ways at all. 

She spent the morning in unpacking her things, and 
arranging them, with rather a sad heart, in her room. She 
did not like to go downstairs until the luncheon-bell rang ; 
and then she found that she was to lunch alone. Miss 
Brooke was out ; Mr. Brooke was in his study. 

The white-capped and severe-visaged middle-aged ser- 
vant, who was known as Sarah, came to Lesley after the 
meal with a message. 

“ Mr. Brooke says. Miss, that he would like to see you 
in his study, if you can spare him a few minutes.” 

Lesley flushed hotly as she was shown into the smoky, 
little den. It was a scene of confusion, such as she had 
never beheld before. The table was heaped high with 
papers : books and maps strewed every chair ; even the 
floor was littered with bulky tomes and piles of manuscript. 


BROOKE DAUGHTER, 


57 


At a knee-hole table Caspar Brooke was sitting, writing 
hard, as if for dear life, his loose hair falling heavily over 
his big forehead, his left hand grasping his thick brown 
beard. He locked up as Lesley entered, and gave her a 
nod. 

‘‘ Good-morning,^’ he said. Wait a minute : I must 
finish this and send it off by the quarter to three post. I 
have just done.’’ 

He went on writing, and Lesley stood motionless beside 
the table, with a feeling of dire offence in her proud young 
heart. Why had he sent for her if he did not want her ? 
She was half inclined to walk away without another word. 
Only a sense of filial duty restrained her. She thought to 
herself that she had never been treated so unceremoniously 
— even in her earliest days at school. And she was sur- 
prised to find that so small a thing could ruffle her so much. 
She had hardly known at the convent, or while visiting her 
mother, that she had such a thing as a temper.” It sud- 
denly occurrred to her now that her temper was very bad 
indeed. 

And in truth she had a hot, strong temper — very like 
her father’s, if she had but known it — and a will that was 
prone to dominate, not to submit itself to others. These 
were facts that she had yet to learn. 

Well, Lesley,” said Caspar Brooke, laying down his 
pen, I have finished my work at last. Now we can 
talk.” 


58 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER VII. 

FRIENDS AND FOES. 

Something in the slightly mutinous expression of Lesley’s 
face seemed to strike her father. He looked at her 
fixedly for a minute or two, then smiled a little, and 
began to busy himself amongst his papers. 

‘‘ You are very like your mother,’' he said. 

Lesley felt a thrill of strong indignation. How. dared 
he speak of her mother to her without shame and grief 
and repentance? She flushed to her temples and cast 
down her eyes, for she was resolved to say nothing that 
she might afterwards regret. 

Won’t you sit down ?” said Mr. Brooke, indifferently. 
‘‘You must make yourself at home, you know. If you 
don’t, Lm afraid you will be uncomfortable. You will 
have to look after yourself.” 

Lesley made no answer. She was thinking that it would 
be very disagreeable to look after herself. She did not 
know how clearly her face expressed her sentiments. 

“ You don’t much like the prospect, apparently ? ” said 
her father. “Well” — for he was becoming a little pro- 
voked by her silence — “ what would you like ? Do you 
want a maid ? ” 

“ Oh, no, thank you,” said Lesley, startled into speech. 

“You can have one if you like, you know. Speak to 
your aunt about it. I suppose you have not been accus- 
tomed to wait upon yourself. Can you do your own 
hair? ” 

He spoke with a smile, half-indulgent, half-contemptuous. 
Lesley remembered, with intuitive comprehension of his 
mood, that her mother was singularly helpless, and never 
dressed without Dayman’s help, or brushed the soft tresses 
that were still so luxuriant and so fair. She rebelled at 
once against the unspoken criticism. 

“ I can do everything for myself,” she said ; “ I can do 
my own hair and mend my dresses and everything, because 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


59 

I am a schoolgirl ; but of course when I am older I expect 
to have my own maid, as every lady does.’^ 

Mr. Brooke’s short, hard laugh was distinctly unpleasing 
to her ear. 

I think you will find, when you are older,” he said, with 
an emphasis on the words, that a great many ladies have 
to do without maids — and very much better for them that 
they should — but as I do not wish to stint you in anything, 
nor to oppose any fairly reasonable desire of yours, I will 
tell your aunt to get you a maid as soon as possible.” 

Oh, no, please ! ” cried Lesley, more alarmed than 
pleased by the prospect. I really do not wish for one ; 
I do not wish you to have the trouble — the ex ” 

She stopped short : she did not quite like to speak of 
the expense.’^ 

It will not be much trouble to me if Sophia finds you 
a maid,” said her father drily ; “and as to the expense, 
which is what I suppose you were going to allude to, I am 
quite well able to afford it. Otherwise I should not have 
proposed such a thing.” 

Lesley felt herself snubbed, and did not like it, but again 
kept silence. 

“ I cannot promise you much amusement while you stay 
here,” Mr. Brooke went on, but anything that you like to 
see or hear when you are in town can be easily provided for. 
I mean in the way of picture galleries, concerts, theatres 
— things of that kind. Your Aunt Sophia will probably 
be too much occupied to take you to such places ; but if 
you have a maid you will be pretty independent. I wonder 
she did not think of it herself. Of course a maid can go 
about with you, and so relieve her mind.” 

“ I am sorry to be troublesome,” said Lesley, stiffly. 

He cast an amused glance at her. “ You won’t trouble 
my dear. And Mrs. Romaine says that she will call 
and make your acquaintance. I dare say you will find 
her a help to you.” 

“ Is she — a friend of yours ? ” 

A very old friend,” said Caspar Brooke, with decision. 
“ Then there are the Kenyons, who live opposite. Ethel 
Kenyon is a clever girl — a great favorite of mine. Her 
brother is a doctor.” 

“And she lives with him and keeps his house?” said 
Lesley, growing interested. 


6o 


BROOKE DAUGHTER, 


‘‘ Well, she lives with him. I don’t know that she does 
much in the way of keeping his house. I hope I shall not 
shock your prejudices ” — how did he know that she had 
any prejudices? — “ if I tell you that she is an actress.” 

‘‘ An actress 1 ” — Lesley flushed with surprise, even with 
a little horror, though at the same moment she was con- 
scious of a movement of pleasant curiosity and a desire 
to know what an actress was like in private life. 

I thought you would be horrified,” said her father, 
looking at her with something very like satisfaction. “ How 
could you be anything else ? How long have you lived in a 
French convent ? Eight or ten years, is it not ? Ah, well, I 
can’t be surprised if you have imbibed the conventional 
idea of what you would call, I suppose, your class.” He 
gave a little shrug to his broad shoulders. “ It can’t be 
helped now. You must make yourself as happy as you can, 
my poor child, as long as you are here, and console yourself 
with visions of your happy future at the Courtleroys’.” 

It was exactly what Lesley intended to do, and yet she 
felt hurt by the slightly contemptuous pity of his tone. 

‘‘ I have no doubt that I shall be very happy,” she said, 
steadying her voice as well as she could ; “ and I hope 
that you will not concern yourself about me.” 

‘‘ I should not have time* to do so if I wished,” he 
answered coolly. ‘‘ I never concern myself about anything 
but my proper business, which is not to look after girls of 
eighteen ” 

“ Then why did you send for me here ? ” she asked, with 
lightning rapidity. 

The question seemed to surprise him. He raised his 
eyebrows as he looked at her. 

That was a family arrangement made many years 
ago,” he answered at last deliberately. ‘‘ And I think it 
was a wise one. There is no reason why you should grow 
up in utter ignorance of your father. And I prefer you to 
come when you have arrived at something like a reasonable 
age, rather than when you were quite a child. As you are 
at a reasonable age, Lesley,” with a lightening of his tones, 
“ I suppose you have some tastes, some inclinations, of 
your own ? What are they ? ” 

It must have been obstinacy that prompted Lesley’s 
answer. ‘‘I have no taste,” she said, looking down. “No 
inclinations.” 


BROOKE’S DAUGHTER, 


6i 


‘‘ Are you not fond of music ? 

I play a little — a very little. ’’ 

‘‘ Oh.” The tone was one of disappointment. Art ? 
Drawing — carving — modelling — any of J;he fads young 
ladies are so fond of now-a-days ? ” 

‘‘ No.” 

‘‘Do you read much ? 

“ No.” 

“ What do you do, then ? 

“ I can embroider a little,” said Lesley, calmly. “ The 
nuns taught me. And I can dance.” 

She raised her eyes and studied the stormy expressions 
that flitted one after another across her father’s face. She 
knew that she had taken a delight in provoking him, and 
she wondered whether he was not going to retaliate by an 
angry word. But after a few moments’ j^ause he only 
said — 

“ Would you like any lessons in singing or drawing now 
that you are in town ? ” 

The offer was a temptation to Lesley. Yes, she would 
dearly have liked some good singing lessons ; her mother 
even had suggested that she should take them while she 
was in London. She was the fortunate possessor of a 
voice that was worth cultivating, and she longed to make 
the best of her time. But she had come with the notion 
that her father was poor, and that she must not be an 
unnecessary expense to him ; and this idea had not 
been counteracted by any appearance of luxury or lavish 
expenditure in her London home. The furniture, except 
in her own room, was heavy, old-fashioned, and decidedly 
shabby. Her father seemed to work very hard. He had 
already promised her a maid ; and Lesley could not bear 
to ask him for anything else. So she answered — 

‘‘ No, I think not, thank you.” 

There might be generosity, but there was also some 
resentment and hot temper at the bottom of Lesley’s reply. 
This was a fact, however, that her father did not discern. 
He merely paused for a moment, nodded his head once or 
twice, and seemed slightly disconcerted. Then he said — 
Very well ; do just as you like. Your aunt has a 
Mudie subscription, I believe ” — what this meant Lesley 
had not the faintest idea — “ and you will find books in the 
library, and a piano in the drawing-room. You must ask 


62 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


for anything you want.” As if that was likely, Lesley 
thought ! “ I hope you will make friends and be com- 

fortable. And — a — he paused, and hesitated in his speech 
as he went on — “ a — I hope — your mother — Lady Alice — 
was well when you left her ? ” 

“ Pretty well,” Lesley answered, dropping her eyes. 

Was she going to Scotland for the winter? ” 

I think so.” 

Oh.” He seemed satisfied with the answer. By 
the- way, Lesley, are you Catholic or Protestant ? ” 

‘‘Protestant. Mamma would not allow the Sisters to 
talk to me about religion. I always drove to the English 
Church on Sundays.” 

“ Oh, very well. Do as you please. There are plenty 
of churches near us. But you need not bring more clergy 
than you can help to the house,” said Brooke, with a 
peculiar smile. “I am not very fond of the Blacks. I am 
more of a Red myself, you know.” 

“ A Red ? ” Lesley asked, helplessly. 

“ A Red Republican — Radical — Socialist — anything you 
like,” said Brooke, laughing outright. “You didn’t read 
the papers in your convent, I suppose. You had better 
begin to study them straight away. It will be a pleasant 
change from the Lives of the Saints. And now, if we 
have finished all that we have to say — I am rather busy, 
and ” 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon : I will go,” said Lesley, rising 
at once. “ I had no wish to intrude upon you,” she added, 
with an attempt to be dignified and womanly, which she 
felt to be a miserable failure. Her father simply nodded 
in reply, took up his pen, and allowed her to leave the 
room. 

But when she had gone, he put the pen down and sat 
back in his chair, musing. Lesley had surprised him a 
little. She had more force and fire in her composition 
than he had expected to find. She was, as he had said, 
very like her mother in face and figure ; and the minute 
differences of line and contour that showed Lesley to be 
strong where Lady Alice had been weak, original where 
Lady Alice had been most conventional, intellectual where 
Lady Alice had been only intelligent, were not perceptible 
at first sight even to a ])ractised observer of men and 
women like Caspar Brooke. But the flash of her brown 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


63 


eyes, so like his own, and an occasional intonation in her 
voice, had told him something. She was in arms against 
him,^so much he felt ; and she had more individuality than 
her mother, in spite of lier ignorance. It was a pity that 
her education had been so much neglected ! Manlike, 
Caspar Brooke took literally every word that she had 
uttered ; and reproached himself for having allowed his 
foolish, frivolous wife to bring up his daughter in a place 
where she had been taught nothing but embroidery and 
dancing. 

‘Mt is a pity,’^ he reflected ; ‘‘but we cannot alter the 
matter now. The poor girl will feel herself sadly out of 
place in this house, I fear ; but perhaps it won't do her 
any harm. She may be a better woman all her life — the 
idle, selfish, self-indulgent life that she is bound by all her 
traditions and her upbringing to lead — for having seen for 
a few months what honest work is like. She is too hand- 
some not to marry well : let us only hope that Alice won't 
secure a duke for her. She will if she can ; and I — well, 
I haven't much opinion of dukes." And so with a laugh 
and a shrug, Caspar Brooke returned to his work. 

Lesley went upstairs to the drawing-room with burning 
cheeks and a lump in her throat. She was offended by 
her father’s manner towards her, although she could not 
but acknowledge that in essentials he had seemed wishful 
to be kind. And she knew that she had seemed ungracious 
and had felt resentful. But the resentment, she assured 
herself, was all on her mother’s account. If he had treated 
Lady Alice as. he had treated Lady Alice's daughter — with 
hardly concealed contempt, with the scornful indifference 
of one looking down from a superior height — Lesley did 
not wonder that her mother had left him. It was a manner 
which had never been displayed to her before, and she said 
to herself that it was horribly discourteous. And the 
worst of it was that it did not seem to be directed to her- 
self alone : it included her friends the nuns, her mother, 
her mother’s family, and all the circle of aristocratic 
relations to which she belonged. She was despised as 
part of the class which he despised ; and it was difficult 
for her to understand the situation. 

It would have been easier if she could have set her 
father down as a mere boor, without refinement or intelli- 
gence ; but there was one item in her impression of him 


64 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


which she could not reconcile with a want of culture. She 
was keenly sensitive to sound ; and voices were important 
to her in her judgment of acquaintances. Now, Caspar 
Brooke had a delightful voice. It was low, musical, and 
finely modulated : his accent, moreover, was particularly 
delicate and refined. Lesley had, without knowing it, the 
same charmingly modulated intonation ; and her father's 
voice was instinctively familiar to her. People had often 
said that it was hard to dislike a man with a voice like 
Caspar Brooke’s ; and Lesley was not insensible to its 
fascination. No, he could not be a mere insensate clod, 
with that pleasant and cultivated voice, she decided to 
herself ; but he might be something worse — a heartless 
man of the word, who cared for nothing but himself and 
his own low ambitions : not a man who was worthy to be 
the husband of a gentle, loving, highly-organized woman 
like the daughter of Lord Courtleroy. 

With a deep sigh, Lesley ceased at last to meditate, 
and began to look about her. The room was large and 
lofty, and had three windows, opening upon a balcony. 
There were more books than Lesley had usually seen in 
drawing-rooms, and there was a very handsome Broadwood 
grand piano. The furniture was mostly of the solid type, 
handsome enough, but very heavy. Lesley, noticed, how- 
ever, that the prints and paintings on the walls were really 
good, and that there was some valuable china on the 
mantlepiece. It was not an ugly room after all, and it 
displayed signs of culture on the part of its occupants ; 
but Lesley turned from it with an impatient little shake of 
her head, expressive of deep disgust. And, indeed, it 
was sufficiently unlike the rooms to which she was accus- 
tomed to cause her considerable disappointment. 

She drew aside the curtains which hung from the arch- 
way between the back room and the front; and here her 
brow cleared. The one wide window looked out on a 
space of green grass and trees, inexpressibly refreshing 
to Lesley’s eye. The walls were lined with rows of books, 
from floor to ceiling ; and some easy chairs and small 
tables gave a look of comfort and purpose to the room. 
It was Mr. Brooke's library, though not the room in which 
he did his work. That was chiefly done in his little den 
downstairs, or at his office in the city. 

Lesley looked at the books with great and increasing 
pleasure. Here, indeed, was a joy of which her father 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


«5 


could not rob her. No one would take any notice of 
what she read. She could browse undisturbed over the 
whole field of English literature if she were so minded. 
And the prospect was a delight. 

She sauntered back into the front room, and stood at 
one of the windows for a minute or two. Her attention 
was speedily attracted by a little pantomime at a window 
opposite her own — a drawing-room window, too, with a 
balcony before it, like the window at which she stood. A 
young lady in a white dress was talking to a black poodle, 
who was standing on his hind-legs, and a young man was 
balancing a bit of biscuit on the dog’s nose. That was 
all. But the young lady was so extremely pretty, and the 
young man looked so cheerful and bright, and the poodle 
was such an extremely fascinating dog, that Lesley sighed 
in very envy of the felicity of all three. And it never 
crossed her mind that the pretty girl in the white costume, 
who had such a simple and natural look, could possibly be 
Ethel Kenyon, the actress, of whom her father had been 
speaking half an hour before. Yet such was the case. 

She was still observing the figures at the window when 
the door opened, and Sarah announced a visitor. 

Mrs. Romaine, please, ma’am.’* 

Whereupon Lesley remembered the very old friend ” 
whom Mr. Brooke had mentioned. But was this the very 
old friend? This young andfasionably-dressed woman, with 
short, dark, curling hair, and a white veil to enhance the 
whiteness of her complexion. Mrs. Romaine was very 
handsome, without a doubt, but Lesley did not like her. 

“ Miss Brooke ? ” said the visitor, in a silvery, flute-like 
voice, which the girl could not but admire. ‘‘ You will 
forgive me for calling so soon ? My old friendship with 
Mr. Brooke — whom I have known for years — made me 
anxious to see you, dear, as soon as possible. You will 

receive me also as a friend, I hope ” 

There could be but one answer. Lesley was delighted. 
“I have heard so much of you,” murmured Mrs. Romaine, 
silting down with the girl’s hand in hers and gazing into 
her face with liquid, dreamy eyes ; and I wanted to know 
if I could not be of use to you. Dear Miss Brooke is so 
much occupied. I may call you Lesley, may I not ? Dear 
Lesley, it will be the greatest possible pleasure to me to 
assist you in any way.” 


66 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Thank you very much/* said Lesley, rather lamely. 

‘‘Dear,** said Mrs. Romaine, “may I speak to you 
frankly ? I knew your dear mother many years ago ’* 

Lesley turned upon her with suddenly kindled eyes. 

“ You knew mamma ? ** 

“ I did, indeed, and I cannot express to you what my 
feeling was for her. Love, admiration — these seem cold 
words : worship, Lesley, expresses more nearly what I felt ! 
Can you wonder that I hasten to welcome her daughter to 
her home ? ** 

Lesley*s innocent heart warmed to the new-comer at 
once. How unjust she had been, she thought, to shrink 
for a moment from the visitor because of her youthful and 
ultra-fashionable appearance. Had she not found a friend ? 
— a woman who loved her mother ? 

Mrs. Romaine saw the impression that she had made, 
and did not try to deepen it just then. She went on more 
lightly : 

“ I am a widow, you know, and I live in Russell Square. 
I hope that you will come and see me sometimes. Drop 
in whenever you like, and if there is anything that I can 
do for you count on me. You will want to go shopping 
or making calls sometimes when Miss Brooke is too busy 
to take you ; then you must come to me. And how was 
dear Lady Alice when you saw her last ? ** 

Lesley did not like these effusive expressions of affection. 
But she answered, gently — 

“ Mamma was quite well, thank you.** Which answer 
did not give Mrs. Romaine all the information that she 
desired. 

“ I have been looking at a pretty poodle dog over the 
way,’^ she went on, conscious of some desire to change the 
subject. “ Its mistress has been putting it through all 
sorts of tricks — ah, there it is again ! *’ 

“ The Kenyons* dog ? ** said Mrs. Romaine, smiling, as 
she looked at the little group which had once more formed 
itself upon the balcony. “ Oh, I see. That is young Mr. 
Kenyon, the doctor, a great friend of your father*s ; and 
that is his sister, Ethel Kenyon, the actress.** 

“ My father spoke about her,** said* Lesley. 

“ Oh, yes, he admires her very much. He wrote a long 
article about her in the Tribune once. Do you see the 
Tribune regularly? Your dear father writes a great deal 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 67 

for it, and I am sure you must appreciate his exquisite 
writing.” 

“ Do you know Miss Kenyon too ? ” 

Oh, yes, I know her very well. And I expect to know 
her better very soon, because I suppose we shall be con- 
nections before long.” 

Lesley looked a smiling inquiry. 

‘‘ I have a younger brother — my brother Oliver,” said 
Mrs. Romaine, with a little laugh ; and younger brothers, 
dear, have a knack of falling in love. He has fallen in love 
with Ethel, who is really a nice girl, as well as a pretty 
and a clever girl, and I believe they will be married by 
and by.*^ 

Lesley could not have said why, but somehow at that 
moment she was distinctly glad of the fact. 


6S 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

OLIVER'S INTENTIONS. 

# 

‘‘ Well, what is she like? ” Oliver Trent asked, lightly, of 
his sister Rosalind, when they met that evening at dinner. 

“ Lesley Brooke ? She is a handsome girl," said Mrs. Ro- 
maine, with some reserve of manner. 

“ Nothing more ? " 

His sister waited until the servant had left the room 
before she replied. 

I wish you would be discreet, Oliver. My servants are 
often at the Brookes' with messages. I should not like 
them to repeat what you were saying." 

Oliver shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man to 
whom women’s caprices are incomprehensible. But he 
was silent until dessert was placed upon the table, and 
Mrs. Romaine's neat parlor-maid had disappeared. 

“ Now," he said, “ you can disburthen your mind in 
peace.” 

‘‘ Oliver," said Mrs. Romaine, abruptly. I want you 
to make Miss Brooke's acquaintance as soon as you can. 
I don’t understand her, and I think that you can help 
me." 

‘‘ As how ! ” 

“ Oh, don’t be silly. You always get on with girls, and 
you can tell me what you think of her.” 

Oliver raised his eyebrows, took a peach from the dish 
before him, and began to peel it with great deliberation. 

“ Handsome, you say ? ” 

“ Very.” 

“ Like Lady Alice ? I remember her ; a willowy, sha- 
dowy creature, with a sort of ethereal loveliness which 
appealed very strongly to my imagination when I was a 
boy." 

Mrs. Romaine flushed a little. It occurred to her that 
she had never been called shadowy or ethereal-looking. 

She is much more substantial than Lady Alice,” she 
said, drily. “ I should say that she had more individuality 


BROOKE DA UGH TER. 69 

about her. She looks to me like a girl of character and 
intellect.” 

‘‘ In which case your task will be the more difficult, you 
mean ? ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean by a task. I have not 
set myself to do anything definite.” 

“ No ? Then you are very unlike your sex, Rosalind. 
I generally find women much too definite— damnably 
so.” 

Well, then, I must be an exception. You are always 
trying to entrap me into damaging admissions, Oliver, and 
I won’t put up with it. All that I want is to be sure that 
Lady Alice shall not return to her husband. But there is 
nothing definite in that.” 

“ Oh, nothing at all,” said Oliver, satirically. “ All that 
you have got to do is to prejudice father and daughter 
against each other as much as possible, make Brooke be- 
lieve that the girl has been set against him by her mother, 
and persuade Miss Brooke that her father is not the sort of 
man that Lady Alice can return to. Nothing definite in 
that, is there ? ” 

“ Oliver, you are quite too bad. I never made any 
plans of the kind.” But there was a distinctly guilty look 
in Mrs. Romaine’s soft eyes. “ Besides, that is a piece of 
work which hardly needs doing. Father and daughter are 
too much alike to get on.” 

Alike, are they ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, in a sense. The girl is very like her mother, too 
— she has Lady Alice’s features and figure, but the expres- 
sion of her face is her father’s. And her eyes and her 
brow are her father’s. And she is like her father — I think 
— in disposition.” 

“ You have found out so much that I think you scarcely 
need me to interview her in order to tell you more. What 
do you want me to do? ” 

I want to find out more about Lady .Alice. Could you 
not get Ethel Kenyon to ask her about her mother, and 
then persuade Ethel to tell you ? ” 

“ Can’t take Ethel into our confidence,” said Oliver 
with a disparaging emphasis upon the name. ‘‘ She is such 
a little fool.” And then he began to roll a cigarette for 
himself. 


70 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Mrs. Romaine watched him thoughtfully for a minute or 
two. “ Noll,” she said at length, I thought you were 
really fond of Ethel ” 

Oliver’s eyes were fixed upon the cigarette that he was 
now lighting, and, perhaps, that was the reason why he 
did not answer for'' a minute or two. At last, he said, in 
his soft, drawling way — 

‘‘ I am very fond of Ethel. And especially of the twenty 
thousand pounds that her uncle left her.” 

“ Ethel Kenyon is handsome enough to be loved for 
something beside her money.” 

“ Handsome ? Oh, she’s good-looking enough : but she’s 
not exactly to my taste. A little too showy, too abrupt 
for me. Personally I like a softer, quieter woman ; but as 
a rule the women that I really admire haven’t got twenty 
thousand pounds.” 

“ I know who would suit you,” said Mrs. Romaine, 
leaning forward and speaking in a very low voice — ‘‘ Lesley 
Brooke.” 

“ What is her fortune? If it’s a case of her face is her 
fortune, she really won’t do for me. Rosy, however suitable 
she might be in other respects.” 

“ But,” said Mrs. Romaine, eagerly, “ she is sure to have 
plenty of money. Her father is well off — better off than 
people know — and would probably settle a considerable 
sum upon her ; then think of the Courtleroys — there is a 
fair amount of wealth in that family, surely ” 

‘‘ Which they would be so very likely to give her if she 
married me,” said her brother, with irony. “ Moonshine, 
my dear. Do you think that Lady Alice would allow her 
daughter to marry your brother? — knowing what she does, 
and hating you as she does, would she like to be connected 
with you by marriage? ” 

That is exactly why I wish that you would marry her,” 
said Mrs. Romaine, almost below her breath. Think of 
the triumph for me ! ” 

Her eyes glowed, and she breathed more quiCKiy as she 
spoke. That woman scorned me — gloated over my sor- 
row and my love,” she said ; ‘‘ she dared to reproach me 
for what she called my want of modesty — my want of 
womanly feeling, and — oh, I cannot tell you what she said ! 
But this I know,* that if I could reach her through her 
daughter or her husband, and stab her to the heart as she 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


71 


once stabbed rnc, the dearest wish of my life would be ful- 
filled ! ” 

‘‘ Women are always vindictive/^ said Oliver, philosophic- 
ally. The fact is, you want to revenge yourself on Lady 
Alice through me, and yet you don't consider 77ie in the 
very least. If I married this Lesley Brooke, Lady Alice 
and all the Courtleroys would no doubt get into an awful 
rage with her and you and me and everybody ; and what 
would be the upshot ? Why, they would cut her off with 
a shilling and we should be next door to penniless. Then 
Brooke — well, he may be fairly prosperous, but he has 
only what he makes, you know ; and I doubt if he could 
settle very much upon his daughter, even if he wanted to. 
And he does not like me. I doubt whether you, my 
dear Rosy, could dispose him to look favorably on my 
advances." 

Mrs. Romaine was perhaps convinced, but she did not 
like to own herself mistaken. She was silent for a minute 
or two, and then said with a sigh and a smile — 

You may be right. But it would have been splendid 
if you could have married Lesley Brooke. We should have 
been thorns in Lady Alice's side ever afterwards." 

“ You are one already, aren't you? " asked Oliver. He 
got up from the table and approached the mantelpiece as 
if to show that the discussion was ended. No, my dear 
Rosalind," he said, “ I’m booked. I am going to woo and 
wed Miss Ethel Kenyon and her twenty thousand pounds. 
She will be sick of her fad for the stage in twelve months. 
And then we shall live very comfortably. But I’ll tell you 
what I will do to please you. I’ll flirt with this Lesley 
girl, nineteen to the dozen. I’ll make love to her : I'll win 
her young affections, and do my best to break her heart, if 
you like. How would that suit you ? ’' 

He spoke with a smile, but Rosalind knew that there was 
a ring of serious earnest in his voice. 

It sounds a very cold-blooded sort of thing to do," she 
said. 

Please yourself. I won't do it, then." 

Oh, Oliver '’ 

‘‘ Yes, I know you would like to see Lady Alice’s daugh- 
ter pining away for love of me," said Oliver, with a little 
laugh. ‘‘ It is not a bad idea. The difficulty will be to 
manage both girls — seriously, Rosalind, Ethel Kenyon is 
the girl I mean to marry." 


72 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


You are clever enough for anything if you like/’ 

‘‘Thank you. Well, I’ll see how far I can go.” 

“ I must tell you, first, however,” said Mrs. Romaine, 
with some hesitation, “ that I told Lesley Brooke this 
afternoon that you were in love with Ethel. I had not 
thought of this plan, you see, Oliver.” 

“ Ah, that complicates matters. Still, I think that we 
can manage — after a little reflection,” said her brother, 
quietly. “ Leave me to think it over, and I’ll let you know 
what to do. And now I’m going out.” 

“Where?” 

“ Why should you ask? Do I generally tell you where 
I am going ? Well, if you particularly want to know, I am 
going to the Novelty Theatre.” 

“ To see Ethel act ? ” 

“ No — her part will be over by the time I get there. I 
shall probably see her home.” 

Mrs. Romaine made no remonstrance. If she thought 
her brother’s conduct a trifle heartless, she did not venture 
to say so. She was sometimes considerably in awe of 
Oliver, although he was only a younger brother. 

She went into the drawing-room rather slowly, watching 
him as he put on his hat and overcoat in the hall. 

“ There is one thing I meant to tell you to-night, but I 
forgot it until now,” she said, pausing at the drawing-room 
door. “ I am nearly sure that I saw Francis in the Square 
to-day.” 

Oliver turned round quickly. “ The deuce you did ! Did 
he see you ? — did he try to speak to you ? ” 

“ No, but I think that he is lying in wait. You made me 
promise to tell you when I saw him next.” 

“ Yes, indeed. I won’t have him bothering you for 
money. If he wants money he had better come to me.” 

“ Have you so much, Noll ? ” 

He frowned and turned away. “ At any rate he is not 
to annoy he said. “ And I shall tell him so.” 

Mrs. Romaine made no objection. This ne’er-do-weel 
brother of hers — Francis by name — had always been a 
trouble and perplexity to her. He had been in the habit 
of appealing periodically to her for help, and she had sel- 
dom failed to respond to the appeal, although she believed 
that all the money she gave him went for gambling debt or 
^rink ; but lately Oliver had interfered. He had said that 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


73 


Francis must henceforth apply to him and not to Rosalind 
if he wanted help, which sounded kind and brotherly 
enough \ but Rosalind had a vague suspicion that there 
was more than met the ear in this declaration. She fancied 
somehow, that Oliver had secret and special reasons for 
preventing Francis’ applications to her. But she knew 
very well that it was useless to ask questions or to make 
surmises respecting Oliver’s motives and actions, unless he 
chose fo show a readiness to make them clear to her. So 
she let him go out of the house without further remark. 

As Oliver crossed the road, he noticed that a man was 
leaning against the iron railings of the green enclosure in 
the middle of the Square. The man’s form was in shadow, 
but his face seemed to be turned to Mrs. Romaine’s house. 
Oliver sedulously averted his eyes and hailed a passing 
hansom cab. He had no mind to be delayed just then, 
and he was almost certain that he recognized in that gaunt 
and shabby figure his disreputable brother. No, by-and- 
bye he would talk to Francis, he said to himself, but not 
to-night. He had other game in view on this particular 
evening in September. 

The Novelty Theatre was just then occupied by a com- 
pany that claimed to be the interpreters of a Scandinavian 
play-writer whose dramatic poems were just then the talk 
of London. Ethel Kenyon was playing a very minor part 
— a smaller rdle^ indeed, than she was generally supposed 
to take, but one which she had accepted si\nply as an ex- 
pression of her enthusiastic admiration for the author. 
Oliver knew the state of mind in which she generally came 
away from the representation of this play, and counted on 
her bright and elevated mood as a help to him in the course 
he meant to pursue. 

He knew her habits as well as he knew her moods. For 
the last three years, ever since Rosalind had settled in 
London, and he had been able to cultivate Miss Kenyon’s 
acquaintance, he had watched her blossom from a saucy, 
laughing girl into a very attractive woman. It was only 
during the past few months, however, that he had thought 
of her as his future wife — only since she had succeeded to 
that enticing legacy of twenty thousand pounds. Since 
then he had studied her more carefully than ever. 

The Scandinavian writer’s play was always over by a 
quarter to ten o’clock, and was succeeded by another in 


74 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


which Ethel had no share. She never stayed longer than 
was necessary on these nights . She was generally ready 
to leave the theatre soon after ten o’clock with her compa- 
nion^ Mrs. Durant, who had the right of entry to her dress- 
ing-room, and generally acted as her dresser. Maurice 
Kenyon had refused to let his sister go upon the stage un- 
less she was always most carefully chaperoned. Mrs. 
Durant was always at hand whenever Ethel went to the 
Novelty Theatre. And Oliver knew exactly what to ex- 
pect when he took up his position — not for the first time — 
at the narrow little stage-door. 

It was after ten o’clock, and the moon had risen in an 
almost cloudless sky. Even London looked beautiful be- 
neath its light. Oliver cast a glance towards it and nodded 
as if in satisfaction. He did not care for the moon one 
jot ; but he held a theory that women, being more roman- 
tic, were more likely to say “ yes ” to a wooer than ‘‘ no,” 
where they were wooed beneath a moonlit sky. The 
chances were all in his favor, he said to himself. 

A cab was already waiting. Presently the door opened 
and a young lady in hood and cloak came out. The light 
fell on a delicate, piquante face, with a complexion of ivory 
fairness which cosmetics had not had time to destroy, with 
charming scarlet lips, long-lashed dark eyes, a dimpled 
chin, and a great quantity of curling dark hair — the kind 
of hair which will not lie straight, but twists itself into 
tight rings, and gets into apparently inextricable tangles, 
and looks pretty all the time. And this was Ethel Kenyon. 
Her companion, a woman of forty-five, staid and demure, 
followed close behind her, giving no sign of surprise when 
Oliver raised his hat and gently accosted the two ladies. 

Good-evening, Miss Kenyon. Good-evening, Mrs. 
Durant : I hope you notice what a lovely evening it is ! ” 

‘‘ Indeed I do ! ” said Ethel, fervently. Oh, how I wish 
I were in the country ! I should like a long country 
walk.” 

‘‘ Would not a town walk do as well, for once ?” asked 
Oliver, in his most persuasive tones. ‘‘ I was wondering 
whether you would consent to let me see you home, as it 
is such a lovely night. But I see you have a cab ” 

I would rather drive, I must say,” remarked Mrs. 
Durant. It was what she knew she was expected to say, 
and she was not sorry for it. ‘‘I am tired of being on my 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


75 

feet so long. But if you would like to walk, Ethel, I dare- 
say Mr. Trent would escort you.’* 

“ I should be only too pleased,*^ said Oliver. 

Ethel laughed happily. “ All right, Mrs. Durant. You 
drive, and I’ll walk home with Mr. Trent.” 

She scarcely waited for Oliver to offer his arm. She laid 
her hand in it so naturally, so securely, that even Oliver felt 
an impulse of pleasure. He looked down at the lovely, 
smiling creature at his side with admiration, even with 
tenderness. 

At first they did not speak much, for they had to pass 
through some crowded and ill-smelling thoroughfares, where 
conversation was almost impossible. By-and-bye they 
emerged from these into Holborn, and thence they made 
their way into the wider streets and airier squares which 
abound in the West Central district. When they came in 
sight of the white pillars and paved yard of the British 
Museum, they were deep in talk on all sorts of matters — 
Shakespeare and the musical glasses,” as Oliver after- 
wards laughingly remarked. But he did not choose that 
she should altogether guide the course of conversation. 
Now and then he took the reins into his own hands. And 
it amused him to see how readily she allowed him to direct 
matters. She responded to the slightest hint, was attentive 
to the least check. Such quickness of apprehension, he 
argued, meant only one thing in a woman : not intellectual 
faculty, but love. 

And you still like the stage? *’ he said to her, after a 
time. 

‘‘ I like it immensely. I can express myself there as I 
could in no other sphere of life. People used to advise me 
to take to recitations : how glad I am that I stood out 
for what 1 liked best.” 

“ What one likes best is not always the safest path.” 

You might as well say it is not always the easiest path ! 
Mine is a very hard life, so far as work is concerned, you 
know. I toil early and late. But how can you be so aw- 
fully trite, Mr. Trent ? I did not expect it of you.*’ 

“ A good deal of life is rather trite,” said Oliver. /‘I 
know only one thing that can preserve it from common- 
placeness and dullness and dreariness.” 

“ And that is ” 

Love.” 


76 


BROORE^S DAUGHTER. 


A little silence fell on both of them. Oliver’s voice had 
sunk almost to a whisper : Ethel’s cheeks had grown sud- 
denly very hot. 

Love makes everything easy and beautiful. Does not 
your poet say so — the man whose play you have acted in 
to-night? Ethel, why don’t you try the experiment? — the 
experiment of loving ? ” 

“ I do try it,” she said, laughing, and trying to regain 
her lost lightness of tone. ‘‘ I love Maurice and Mrs. Du- 
rant and hosts of people.” 

Add one more to the list,” said Oliver. ‘‘ Love meB 

‘‘ You ? ” she said, doubtingly. ‘‘ I am not sure whether 
you are a person to be loved.” 

“ Oh, yes, I am. Seriously, Ethel, may I speak to your 
brother ? May I hope that you can love me a little, and 
that you will some day be my wife ? ” 

Oh, that is very serious ! ” she said, mockingly. And 
she withdrew her fingers from his arm. ‘‘ I did not bar- 
gain for so much solemnity when I set out with you from 
the theatre to-night.” 

But I set out, Ethel, with the intention of asking you 
to be my wife. Come, my darling, won’t you give me an 
answer? Don’t send me away disconsolate ! Let me 
teach you what love means — love and happiness ! ” 

His voice sank once more to its lowest murmur. Ethel 
listened, hesitated, smiled. Her little fingers found their way 
back to his arm again, and were instantly caught and 
pressed, and even kissed, when they came to a dark and 
shady place. And before he parted with her at the door 
of her brother’s house, he had put his arms round her and 
kissed her on the lips. 

Was it all pretence — all for the sake of those twenty 
thousand pounds of hers ? Oliver swore to himself that it 
was not. She was such a pretty little thing — such a dear, 
loving little girl, in spite of her fun and merriment and 
spirit — one could not help feeling fond of her. Not that 
he was going to acknowledge himself capable of such a 
weakness when he next talked to Rosalind. 

He was strolling idly along the east side of Russell 
Square as these thoughts passed through his mind. He 
had completely forgotten the stroller whom he had seen 
leaning against the railings of the Square gardens ; but he 
was unpleasantly reminded of that gentleman’s existence 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


77 

when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice said 
in his ear — 

I’ve been waiting here six hours, Oliver, and I must 
have a word or two with you/' 


78 


BROOKES DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE ELDER BROTHER. 

Oliver turned round sharply, with an air of visible im- 
patience. He knew the voice well enough, and the moon- 
light left him no doubt as to the lineaments of a face with 
which he was quite familiar. Francis Trent was not unlike 
either Rosalind or Oliver ; but of the two he resembled his 
sister rather than his younger brother. True, he did not 
possess her beauty, but he had her sleepy eyes, her type 
of feature, her colorless skin, and jetty hair. The color- 
lessness had degenerated, however, into an unhealthy 
pallor, and the stubbly beard which covered his cheeks and 
chin did not improve his appearance. Besides he was 
terribly out at elbows ; his coat was green with age, his 
boots were broken, and his cuffs frayed and soiled. His 
hat was unnaturally shiny, and dented in two or three 
places. Altogether he looked as unlike a brother of the 
immaculate Oliver and the exquisitely-dressed Rosalind as 
could possibly have been found for either in the world of 
London. 

Oliver surveyed him with polite disgust, and waved him 
back a little. 

You have been drinking coarse brandy, Francis, he 
said, coolly ; “ and you have been smoking bad tobacco. 
I wish you would consult my susceptibilities on those 
points when you come to interview me. You would really 
find it pleasanter in the end.” 

Where am I to find the money to consult your suscep- 
tibilities with ? ” asked the man, with a burst of what 
seemed like very genuine feeling. ‘‘Will you provide me 
with it ? If you don’t, what remains for me but to brink 
British brandy and smoke strong shag? I must drink 
something — I must smoke something. Will you pay the 
piper if I go to more expense ? ” 

“ Not if you talk so loudly as to attract the attention of 
every passing policeman,” said Oliver, dryly. “ If you 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


79 


want to talk to me, as you say you do, keep quiet please/' 

Francis Trent growled something like an imprecation 
on his brother below his breath, and then went on in a 
lowered tone. 

‘‘ It's easy for you to talk. You are not saddled by a 
wife and a lot of debts. You haven't to keep out of the 
way for fear you should be wanted by the police — al- 
though you have not been very particular about keeping 
your hands clean after all. But you've been the lucky 
dog and I the unlucky one, and this is the result." 

If you are going to be abusive, my good friend," said 
Oliver, calmly, “ I shall turn round and go home again. 
If you will keep a civil tongue in your head I don't mind 
listening to you for five minutes. What have you got to 
say ? " 

The man was evidently in a state of only half-repressed 
irritation. His brows twitched, he gnawed savagely at 
his beard, he looked at Oliver with furtive hate from 
under his heavy dark brows. But the younger man's cool 
tones seemed to possess the power of keeping him in 
check. He made a visible effort to calm himself as he 
replied, 

‘‘ You needn't be so down on me, Oliver. You must 
allow for a fellow's feeling a little out of sorts when he's 
kept waiting about here for hours. I am convinced that 
Rosalind saw me this afternoon ; I'm certain that you saw 
me to-night. If I had not caught you now I would have 
gone to the front door and hammered at it till one of you 
came out." 

‘‘ And you think that you would have advanced your 
cause thereby ? " 

Why, hang it all, Oliver, one would think that I was 
not your own flesh and blood ! Have you no natural 
affection left ? 

‘‘ Not much. Natural affection is a mistake. You need 
not count on that with me." 

‘‘ You always were a cold-blooded, half-hearted sort of 
a fellow. Not one to help a friend, or even a brother," 
said Francis, sullenly. 

Suppose you come to the point," remarked Oliver. 

It is getting on to eleven o’clock. I really can’t stand 
here all night." 

“ It is nothing to you that I have stood here for hours 
already." 


8o 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


“ No, it is not.’* There was a touch of sharpness in his 
tone. ‘‘ I am in no mood for sentiment. Say what you 
have to say and get done with it, or I shall leave you.” 

‘‘ Well,” said Francis, after a pause, in which he was 
perhaps estimating his own powers of persuasion against 
his brother’s powers of resistance, and coming to the con- 
clusion that it was not worth his while to contend with him 
any longer, I have come to say this. I am hard up — 
devilish hard up. But that’s not all. It is not enough to 
offer me a five-pound note or a ten-pound note and tell me 
to spend it as I please. I want something definite. You 
seem to have plenty of money : I have none. I want an 
allowance, or else a sum of money down, sufficient to take 
Mary and myself to the Colonies. I don’t think that is 
much to ask.” 

“ Don’t you ? ” 

The icy tone which Oliver assumed exasperated his 
brother. 

No, be hanged if I think it is ! ” he said vehemently, 
though still in lowered tones. I want two hundred a 
year — it’s little enough : or two or three thousand on the 
nail. Give me that, and I’ll not trouble you or Rosy any 
more.” 

“ And where do you suppose th?t I’m to get two or 
three thousand pounds, or two hunched a year ? ” 

‘‘ I don’t care where you get it, oO long as you hand it 
over to me.” 

‘^Very sorry I can’t oblige you,” said Oliver, noncha- 
lantly ; ‘‘ but as your proposition is a perfect impossibility, 
I don’t see my way to saying anything else.” 

You think I don’t mean it, do you?” growled his 
brother. ‘‘ I tell you that I will have it. And if I don’t 
have it I’ll not hold my tongue any longer. I’ll ruin you.” 

Don’t talk in that melodramatic way,” said Oliver, 
quietly. But his lip twitched a little as if something had 
touched him unpleasantly. ^‘You know very well that 
you have no more power of ruining me than you have of 
flying to yonder moon. You can’t substantiate any of 
your stories. You can blacken me in the eyes of a few 
persons who know me, perhaps ; but really I doubt your 
power of doing that. People wouldn’t believe you, you 
know; and they would believe me. There is so much 
moral power in a good hat and patent leather boots.” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Si 


Do you dare to trifle with me the man was be- 

ginning, furiously, but Oliver checked him with a slight 
pressure on his arm, and went on suavely. 

All this threatening sort of business is out of date, as 
you ought to know. One would think that you had been 
to the Surrey-side Theatres, lately, or the Porte St. Martin, 
and taken lessons of a stage villain. ‘ Beware ! I will be 
revenged,^ and all that sort of thing. It doesn^t go down 
now, you know. The fact is this — you can’t do me any 
harm, you can only harm yourself ; and I think you had 
better be advised by me and hold your tongue.” 

Francis was silent for a minute or two. He was evi- 
dently impressed by Oliver’s manner. 

‘‘ You’re right in one way,” he said, in a much more 
subdued tone. People wouldn’t listen to me because I 
am so badly dressed — I look so poor. But that could be 
remedied. A new suit of clothes might make all the differ- 
ence, Oliver. And then we could see whether some people 
would believe me or not ! ” 

‘‘ And what difference will it make to me if people did 
believe you ? ” said Oliver, slowly. 

The man stared at him open-mouthed. Oliver was tak- 
ing a view of things which was unknown to Francis. 

Well,” he answered, considering that you and most 
of my relations and friends have cut me for the last ten 
years because I got into trouble over a few accounts at 
the bank — and considering the sorry figure I cut now in 
consequence — I don’t know why you should be so careless 
of the possibility of partaking my downfall ! I should say 
that it would be rather worse for you than it has been for 
me ; and it hasn’t been very nice for me^ I can assure 
you ! ” 

Oliver’s face grew a trifle paler, but his voice was as 
smooth as ever when he began to speak. 

Now, look here, Francis,” he said, I’ll be open and 
plain with you. Of course, I know what you are alluding 
to ; it would be weakness to pretend that I did not. But 
I assure you that you are on the wrong track. In your 
case you were found to have embezzled money, falsified 
accounts, and played the devil with old Lawson’s affairs 
generally. You were prosecuted for it, and the whole case 
was in the papers. You got off* on some technical point, 
but everybody knew that you were guilty, and everybody 


82 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


cut you dead — except, you will remember, your brother 
and sister, who continued to give you money, and were 
exceedingly kind to you. You were publicly disgraced, 
and there was no way of hushing the matter up at all. I 
am sorry to be obliged to put things so disagreeably 

“ Go on ! You needn’t apologize,” said Francis, with a 
rather husky laugh. “ I know it all as well as you do. 
Go on.” 

“ I wish to point out the difference between our posi- 
tions,” said Oliver, calmly. “ I did something a little 
shady myself, when I was a lad of twenty — at your insti- 
gation, mind ; I signed old Romaine’s name in the wrong 
place, didn’t I ? Old Roraaine found it out, kept the thing 
quiet, and said that he had given me the money. I ex- 
pressed my regret, and the matter blew over. What can 
you make out of that story ? ” 

He spoke very quietly, but there was a watchfulness in 
his eye, a slight twitching of his nostril, which proved him 
to be not entirely at his ease. His elder brother laughed 
aloud. 

“ If that were all ! ” he said. ‘‘ But you forget how 
base the action would seem if all the circumstances were 
known ! how black the treachery and ingratitude to a man 
who was, after all, your benefactor. Rosalind never knew 
of that little episode, I believe ? And she has a good deal 
of respect for her husband’s memory. I should like to see 
what she would say about it.” 

She would not believe you, my dear boy.” 

“ But if I could prove it ? If I had in my possession a 
full confession signed by yourself — the confession that 
Romaine insisted on, you will remember? What effect 
would that have upon her mind? And there was that 
other business, you know, about Mary’s sister, whom you 
lured away from her home and ruined. She is dead, but 
Mary is alive and can bear witness against you. How 
would you like these facts blazoned abroad and brought 
home to the mind of the pretty girl whom I saw you kiss- 
ing a little while ago on the steps of a house in Upper 
Woburn Place? She is a Miss Kenyon, I know: an 
actress ; I have heard all about her. Her brother is a 
doctor ; and she has twenty thousand pounds in her own 
right.” 

‘‘You do seem, indeed, to know everything,” said Oliver, 
with a sneer. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


S3 


I make it my business to know everything about you. 
You’ve been so confoundedly mean of late that I had be- 
gun to understand that I must put the screw on you. And 
I warn you, if you don’t give me what I ask, or promise 
to do so within a reasonable time, I shall first go to Rosa- 
lind, and then to these Kenyon people, and Caspar 
Brooke, and all these other friends of yours, and see what 
they will give me for your secrets.” 

They’ll kick you out of the house, and you’ll be called 
a fool for your pains,” said the younger man, furiously. 

No, I don’t think so. Not if I play my game pro- 
perly. You are engaged to Miss Kenyon, are you not ? ” 

Oliver stood silent. 

‘‘ I tell you that she shall never marry you in ignorance 
of your past unless you shut my mouth first. And you 
are the best judge of whether she will marry you at all or 
not, when she knows what we know.” 

Then the two brothers were both silent for a little while. 
Oliver stood frowning, tracing a pattern on the pavement 
with the toe of his polished boot, and gazing at it. He 
was evidently considering the situation. Francis stood 
with his back to the railings, his eyes fixed, with a some- 
what crafty look, upon his brother’s face. He was not yet 
sure that his long-cherished scheme for extracting money 
from Oliver would succeed. He believed that it would ; 
but there was never any counting upon Oliver. Astute as 
Francis considered himself (in spite of his failure in the 
world), Oliver was astuter still. 

Presently Oliver looked up and met Francis’ fixed gaze. 
He started a little, and made an odd grimace, intended to 
conceal a nervous twitch of the muscles of his face. Then 
he spoke. 

‘‘You think yourself very clever, no doubt, Well, 
perhaps you are. I’ll acknowledge that, in a certain 
sense, you might spoil my game for me. Not quite in 
the way you think, you know ; but up to a certain point. 
As I don’t want to have my game spoilt, I am willing to 
make a bargain with you — is that plain ? ” 

“ Fair sailing, so far,” said Francis, doggedly. “ Go on. 
What will you give ? ” 

“ Nothing just now. The sum you named on the day 
when I marry Ethel Kenyon, on condition that you give 
me back that confession you talk about, swear not to men- 
tion your wife’s sister, and take yourself off to Australia.” 


84 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


“ Km ! ” said Francis considering. “ So I have brought 
you to terms, have I ? ’^ So much the better for you — and 
perhaps for me. Are you engaged to Miss Kenyon ? 

I asked her to-night to marry me, and slie consented.” 

‘‘You always were a lucky dog, Oliver,” said Francis, 
with almost a wistful expression on his crafty face. “ I 
never could see how you managed it, for my part. If that 
pretty girl ” — with a laugh — “ knew all that I knew 

“ Exactly. I don’t want her to know all you do. Are 
you going to agree to my terms or not ? ” 

“ I should have said they were itiy terms,’^ said the elder 
brother, “ but we won’t haggle about names. Say two 
thousand five hundred pounds down.” 

“ No, two thousand,” said Oliver^ boldly. “ That will 
suit me better than two hundred a year.” 

“ Ah, you want to get rid of me, don’t you ? How soon 
is it likely to be ? ” 

“ Oh, that I can’t tell you. As soon as she fixes the 
day.” 

“ I swear by all that I hold sacred,” said Francis, with 
sudden energy, “ that I won’t wait more than six months, 
and then I’ll take two thousand.” 

“ Six ? Make it twelve. The girl may want a year’s 
freedom.” 

“ I won’t wait twelve. I swear I won’t. I’m tired of 
this life. I can’t get any work to do, though I’ve tried 
over and over again. And I’m always unlucky at play. 
There’s Mary threatening to go out to work again. If we 
were in another country, with a clear start, she should not 
have to do that.” 

Oliver meditated. It did not seem to him likely that 
Ethel would refuse to marry him in six months’ time, but 
of course it was possible. Still he was pretty sure that he 
could get the money advanced as soon as his engagement 
was noised abroad. It was rather a pity that he would 
have to publish it so soon — e.specially when his projects 
respecting Lesley Brooke had not been carried out — but 
it could not be helped. The prospect of ridding himself 
of his brother Francis was most welcome to him. And — 
if he could quiet him by promises, it might perhaps not be 
necessary to pay him the money after all. 

“ Well,” he said, at last, “ I promise it within six months, 
Francis. On the conditions I named, of course.” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 85 

And you will keep your word ? ” said Francis, looking 
suspiciously into his brother’s smooth, pale face. 

‘‘ If not,” answered Oliver, airily, you have the remedy 
in your own hands, you know. You can easily bring me 
to book. And now that this interesting conversation is 
ended, perhaps you will kindly allow me to go home ? The 
night is fine, but I am a good deal chilled with stand- 
ing ” 

And what am I, then ? I’ve been waiting for you, off 
and on, for hours. And I haven’t got a shilling in my 
pocket, either. Haven’t you got a pound or two to spare, 
Oliver ? For the sake of old times, you know.” 

Some men would have found it pitiful to hear poor 
Francis Trent, with his broken-down, cringing, crafty look, 
thus sueing for a sovereign. For he had the air of a ruined 
gentleman, not of an ordinary beggar, and the signs of 
refinement in his face and bearing made his state of abase- 
ment and destitution more apparent. But Oliver was not 
touched by any such sentimental considerations. He 
looked at first as if he were about to refuse his brother’s 
request; but policy dictated another course. He must not 
drive to desperation the man in whose hands lay his char- 
acter and perhaps his future fortune. He put his hand 
into his pocket, brought out a couple of sovereigns, and 
dropped them into Francis’ greedily outstretched palm. 
Then he crossed the road towards his sister’s house, while 
the elder brother slunk away with an air of anything but 
triumph. It was sad to see him so depressed, so broken- 
spirited, so hopeless. For he had been meant for better 
things. But his will was weak, his principles had never 
been settled, and with his first lapse from honesty all self- 
respect seemed to leave him. TJienceforth he went down 
hill, and would long ago have reached the bottom but for 
the one heli:)ing hand that had been held out to stay him 
in his mad career. That hand belonged to none of his 
kith and kin, however. It was seamed and roughened and 
reddened by honest toil ; but the toil had at least been 
honest and the toiler’s love for the fine gentleman for whom 
she worked was loving and sincere. To cut a long story 
short, Francis Trent had married a dressmaker of the 
lower grade, and a dressmaker, moreover, who had once 
been a ladies’-maid. 

While he slouched away to his poverty-stricken home, 
and Oliver solaced himself with a novel and a cigar, and 


86 


BROOKFJS DAUGHTER. 


Miss Ethel Kenyon sank to sleep in spite of a tumult of 
innocent delight which would have kept a person of less 
healthy mind and body wide awake for hours, Lesley 
Brooke, who was to influence the fate of all these three, 
lay upon her bed bemoaning her loneliness of heart, and 
saying to herself that she should never be happy in her 
father’s house. It was not that she had met with any 
positive iinkindness : she could accuse nobody of wishing 
to be rude or cold, but the atmosphere was not one to 
which she was accustomed, and it gave her considerable 
discomfort. Even the Mrs. Romaine of whom her father 
spoke as if she would be a friend, was not very congenial 
to her. Rosalind’s eyes remained cold, despite their soft- 
ness, and Lesley was vaguely conscious of a repulsion — 
such as we sometimes feel on touching a toad or a snake 
— when Mrs. Romaine put her hand on the girl’s listless 
fingers. No, what it was Lesley could not tell, but she was 
sure of this, that she could never like Mrs. Romaine. 

And she cried herself to sleep, and dreamed of the con- 
vent and the sunny skies of France. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


S7 


CHAPTER X. 

KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 

Lesley found that she had unintentionally given great 
offence to Sarah, who was a supreme authority in her 
father^s house, and possibly to her aunt as well, by the 
arrangement with her father that she would have a maid 
of her own. In vain she protested that she did not need 
one, and had not really asked for one ; the impression 
remained upon Miss Brooke’s mind and Sarah’s mind that 
she had in some way complained of the treatment which 
she had received, and they were a little prejudiced against 
her in consequence. 

Miss Brooke was a good woman, and, to some extent, 
a just woman; but it was scarcely possible for her to 
judge Lesley correctly. All Miss Brooke’s traditions 
favored the cult of the woman who worked: and Lesley, 
like her mother before her, had the look of a tall, fair lily — 
one of those who toil not, neither do they spin. Miss 
Brooke was quite too liberal-minded to have any great pre- 
judice against a girl because she had been educated in a 
French convent, though naturally she thought it the worst 
place of training that could have been secured for her ; and 
she had made up her mind at once, when she saw Lesley, 
that although there might be no great harm ” in the poor 
child, she was probably as frivolous, as shallow-hearted, 
and as ignorant as the ordinary French school-girl was 
supposed to be. 

With Sarah the case was different. Sarah was an ardent 
Protestant, of a strict Calvinist type, and she had taken up 
the impression that Miss Lesley must needs be a Roman- 
ist. Now this was not the case, for Lesley had always 
been allowed to go to her own church, see her own clergy- 
man, and hold aloof from the devotional exercises pre- 
scribed for the other girls. But Sarah believed firmly that 
she belonged to the Church of Rome, and she did not feel 
at all easy in her mind at staying unaer the same roof with 


88 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


her. She made this remark to Miss Brooke on the thh^ 
day after Lesley’s arrival, and was offended at the burst of 
laughter with which Miss Brooke received it. 

Do you think the house will fall in, Sarah ? or that 
you will be corrupted ? ” 

I think I may hold myself safe, ma^am,’^ said Sarah, 
with dignity. But I’m not so sure about the house.^’ 

She stood with her arms folded, grimly surveying her 
mistress, who, if the truth must be told, was lying on a 
sofa in her bedroom, smoking a cigarette. Sarah knew 
her mistress' tastes, and had grown generally tolerant of 
them, but she still looked on the cigarettes with disap- 
proval. Miss Brooke was discreet enough to smoke only in 
her own room or in her brother’s study — a fact which had 
mollified Sarah a little when her mistress first began the 
practice. 

The minute you smoke one o’ them nasty things in the 
street, ma’am, I shall give notice," she had said. 

And Miss Brooke had quietly answered : Very well, 
Sarah, we’ll wait till then." 

It must be added, for the benefit of all who are shocked 
by Miss Brooke’s practice, that she had begun it by order 
of a doctor as a cure for neuralgia. She continued it be- 
cause she liked it. Lesley was only just beginning to sus- 
pect her aunt of the habit, and was inexpressibly startled 
and alarmed at the thought of such a thing. That her 
aunt, who was indisputably kind, clever, benevolent, re- 
spectable in every way, should smoke cigarettes, seemed to 
Lesley to justify all that she had heard against her father’s 
Bohemian household. She could not get over it. Sarah 
had got over this outrage on conventionality, but she was 
not yet prepared to forgive Lesley for having lived in a 
French convent. 

Oh, you’re not sure about the house," said Miss 
Brooke. ‘‘ Well, I’m sorry for you, Sarah. I’ll send in a 
plumber if you think that would be any good." 

No, ma’am, don’t ; but if it will not ill-convenience you 
I should like to put a few tracts in Miss Lesley’s room, 
so that she may look at them sometimes instead of the 
little book of Popish prayers that she has brought with 
her.’’ 

Miss Brooke wondered for a moment what the book of 
Popish prayers could be ; and then remembered a little 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


89 


Russia-bound book — the well-known Imitation of Christ 
which she had noticed in Lesley’s room, and which Sarah 
had doubtless mistaken for a book of prayer. It would 
not have been at all like Miss Brooke to clear up the mis- 
take, She generally let mistakes clear themselves. She 
only gave one of her short, clear, rather hard laughs, and 
told Sarah to put as many tracts as she pleased in Lesley’s 
room. Whereon, Lesley shortly afterwards found a bundle 
of these publications in her room, and, as she rather dis- 
liked their tone and tendency, she requested Sarah to take 
them away. 

They were put there for you to read,” said Sarah, with 
stolid displeasure. 

By my aunt ? ” 

Your aunt knew that I was going to put them there. 
And it would be better for you to sit and read them rather 
than them rubbishy books you gets out of master’s libery. 
Your poor, perishing soul ought to be looked after as well 
as your body.’' 

Take them away, please,” said Lesley, wearily. I do 
not want to read them : I am not accustomed to that sort 
of book.” Then, the innate sweetness of her nature gain- 
ing the day, she added, Please do not be angry with me, 
Sarah. I would read them if I thought that they would do 
me any good, but I am afraid they will not.” 

^^Just like your mother,” Sarah said, sharply. “She 
wouldn’t touch 'em with the tips of her fingers, neither. 
And a maid, and all that nonsense. And dresses from 
France. Deary me, this is a sad upsetting for poor master.” 

“ I don’t interfere with your master,” said Lesley, some- 
what bitterly. “ He does not trouble about me — and I 
don’t see why I should trouble about him.” 

She said it almost below her breath, not thinking that 
Sarah would hear or understand ; but Sarah — after floun- 
cing out of the room with an indignant “ Well, I'm sure ! ” 
— went straight to Miss Brooke and repeated every word, 
with a few embellishments of her own. Miss Brooke came 
to the conclusion that Lesley was, first of all, very indis- 
creet to take servants so much into her confidence, and, 
secondly, that she was inclined to rebel against her father’s 
authority. And it seemed good to her to take counsel 
with Mrs. Romaine in this emergency; and Mrs. Romaine 
soon found an opportunity of pouring a sugared, poisoned 
version of what she had heard into Caspar Brooke's too 


90 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER, 


credulous cars. So that he became colder than ever in his 
manner to Lesley, and Lesley wondered vainly how she 
could have offended him. 

The sole comfort that she gleaned at this time came from 
the Kenyons. Ethel called on her, and won her heart at 
once by a peculiarly caressing winsomeness that reminded 
one of some tropical bird — all dainty coquetries and shy, 
sweet playfulness. Not that Ethel was in the least bit shy, 
in reality ; but she had a very tiny touch of the stage habit 
of posmg^ and with strangers she invariably posed as being 
a little shy. But in spite of this innocent little affectation, 
and in spite of a very fashionable style of dress and demean- 
nor, Ethel was true-hearted and affectionate, and Lesley’s 
own heart warmed to the tenderness of Ethel’s nature before 
she had been in her company half an hour. 

You know you are not a bit like what I expected you 
to be,” Ethel said sagely, when the two girls had talked 
together for some little time. 

What did you expect ? ” said Lesley, her face aglow 
I hardly know — something more French, I think — a 
girl with airs and graces,” said Ethel, who had herself more 
airs and graces than Lesley had ever donned in all her life ; 
nothing so Puritan as you are ! ” 

“ Puritan, after so many years of a French convent ? ” 
Yes, Puritan : no word suits you half so well ! There 
is a sort of restrained life and gladness about you, and it is 
the restraint that gives it its attraction ! Oh, forgive me for 
speaking so frankly ; but when I see you I forget that I 
have not known you for years and years ! I feel somehow 
as if we had been friends all our life ! ” 

‘‘ And so do I,” said Lesley, surrendering herself to the 
spell, and letting Ethel take both her hands and look into 
her face. But you are not at all like the English girls I 
expect ed to meet ! I thought they were all cold and stiff ! ” 
Have you never seen an English girl before, dear ? ” 
Yes, but I have had no English girl friend. I never 
talked to an English girl before as I am talking to you.” 

Oh, how charming ! ” said Ethel. And I never before 
talked to a girl who had lived in a convent ! We are each 
a new experience to the other ! What a basis for friend- 
ship I ” 

“ Do you think so ? ” said Lesley. ‘‘ I shgiild have 
thought the opposite — that what is old and well-tried and 
established is the best to found a friendship upon.” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


91 


She spoke half sadly, with a memory of her parents and 
her own relations with her father in her mind. Ethel gave 
her a shrewd glance, but made no direct reply. She was 
a young woman of marvellously quick intuitions, and she 
saw at once that Lesley’s training had not fitted her to take 
up her position in the Brooke household very easily. 

When she went home she turned this matter over in her 
mind a good many times ; and was so absorbed in her 
reflections that her brother had to ask her twice what she 
was thinking about before she answered him. 

I was thinking about Lesley Brooke,” she answered 
promptly. 

A lively subject. I never saw a girl with a more me- 
lancholy expression.” 

‘‘ Well, of course, as yet she hates everything,” said 
Ethel, comprehensively. 

‘‘ Hates everything ! That’s a large order,” said the 
young doctor. 

They were at dinner — they dined at six every day on 
account of Ethel’s professional engagements ; and it was 
not often that Maurice was at home. When he was at 
home Ethel knew that he liked to talk to her, so she aban- 
doned her brown studies. 

Well, she hates the fog and the darkness, and the ugly 
buildings and the solid furniture of Mr. Brooke’s house, 
which dates back to the Georgian era at the very least. 
I’m sure she hates Sarah. And I shouldn’t like to say that 
she hates Doctor Sophy ” — Ethel always called Miss 
Brooke Doctor Sophy — but she doesn’t like her very 
much. She is awfully shocked because Doctor Sophy 
smokes cigarettes.” 

‘‘Quite right of Miss Lesley Brooke to be shocked,” 
said Maurice, laughing. “ However, she need not despair, 
there is always old Caspar to fall back upon.” 

Ethel pursued up her lips, looked at her brother very 
hard, and shook her curly head significantly. 

“Do you mean to say,” cried the doctor, “ that she 
doesn’t appreciate her father? ” 

“ I don’t think she understands hhn. And how can she 
appreciate him if she doesn’t understand ? ” 

Maurice laid down his knife and fork, and simply glared 
at his sister. He was an excitable young man, and had a 
way of expressing himself sometimes in reprehensibly 
strong language. On this occasion, he said — 


92 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Do you mean to tell me that that girl is such a born 
idiot and fool that she can't see what a grand man her 
father is ? 

Ethel nodded. But her eyes brimmed over with mirth. 
Then she deserves to be shut up for life in the convent 
she came from ! said the doctor. I wouldn’t have be- 
lieved it ! Is she blind? Doesn’t she an intellect 

that man has ? Can’t she understand that his abilities are 
equal to those of any man in Europe ? ” 

We all know your admiration for Mr. Brooke, dear,” 
said Ethel, saucily. ^‘You had better go and expound 
your views to Lesley. Perhaps she and her father would 
get on better then.” 

Maurice was silent. He sat and looked aghast .at the 
notion thus presented to him. That Caspar Brooke — his 
friend, his mentor, almost his hero — should not have been 
able to live with his wife was bad enough ! That his 
daughter should not admire him seemed to Maurice a sort 
of profanation ! Heavens, what did the girl mean ? The 
mother might have been an aristocratic fool j but the girl ? 
— she looked intelligent enough ! There must be a misap- 
prehension somewhere ; and it occurred to Maurice that it 
might be his duty to remove it. 

Maurice Kenyon was a born knight-errant. When he 
said that a thing wanted doing, his heart ached until he 
could do it. A Celtic strain of blood in him showed itself 
in the heat of his belief, the impetuosity of his actions. In 
Ethel this strain had taken an artistic turn ; but the same 
nature that urged her to dramatic representation urged her 
brother to set to work vehemently on righting anything that 
he thought was wrong. There never was a man who hated 
more than he to leave a matter in statu quo. 

Although Ethel said no more concerning Lesley’s misun- 
derstanding of her father, Maurice was haunted by the echo 
of her remarks. He could not conceive how a girl possessed 
of ordinary faculties could possibly misprize her father’s 
gifts. Either she was a girl of extraordinary stupidity, or 
she vvas wilfully blind. Perhaps there was no one to point 
out to her Caspar Brooke’s many virtues. But they 
(thought Maurice) lay on the surface, and could not possi- 
bly be overlooked. The girl must have been spoiled by 
her residence in a French convent : she must be either 
stupid, frivolous, or base. Then how could Ethel care for 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


93 


her? Surely she could not be stupid: she could not be 
base — she might be frivolous: Maurice could not go so far 
as to think that his sister Ethel would like her the worse 
for being a little frivolous. Yes, that must be it : she was 
frivolous — a soulless butterfly, who pined for the gaieties 
of Paris. How awfully hard for a man like Caspar Brooke 
to have a daughter who was merely frivolous. 

The more he thought of it — and he thought a good deal 
of it — the more Mr. Kenyon was concerned. No doubt it 
was no business of his, he said to himself, and he was a 
fool to worry himself. But then Brooke was his friend, in 
spite of the disparity of their years ; and he did not like to 
think that his friend had such a heavy burden to bear. 
For, of course, it was a heavy burden to a man like Brooke. 
No doubt Brooke did not show that it was a burden : 
strong men did not cry out when their strength was tried. 
But a man with his power of affection, his tenderness, his 
depth of feeling (as Maurice thought), must be troubled 
when he found that his daughter neither loved nor compre- 
hended him ! 

Maurice reflected that he had seen this extraordinary 
girl once. She had been standing at the window one day 
when he and Ethel were feeding that pampered poodle of 
EthePs, Scaramouch, and he had been struck by thegrace 
of her figure, the queenly pose of her head. He had not 
observed her face particularly, but he believed that it was 
rather pretty. Her dress — for his practised memory began 
to furnish him with details — her dress was grey, and if he 
could judge aright, fashionably made. Yes, a little French 
fashion-plate — a doll, powdered, perhaps, and painted, 
laced up, and perfumed and clothed in dainty raiment, to 
come and make discord in her father^s home ! It was into- 
lerable. Why did not Brooke leave this pestilent creature 
in her own abode, with the insolent, aristocratic friends 
who had done their best already to spoil his life ! 

Thus he worked himself up to a high pitch of passionate 
excitement on his friend's behalf. It never occurred to him 
that Caspar Brooke might not at all be in need of it. It 
did not seem possible to him that a father could feel indif- 
ferent to the opinion of his child. And perhaps he was 
right, and Caspar Brooke not quite so indifferent as he 
seemed. 

It must be the girl's fault, Maurice thought to himself. 
Could nothing be done? Could he set Ethel to talk to 


94 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


her? But no: Ethel was not serious enough in her ap- 
preciation of Caspar Brooke. Mrs. Romaine ? She would 
praise Mr. Brooke, no doubt ; but Kenyon had a troubled 
doubt of Mrs. Romaine's motives. 

Doctor Sophy ? AVell, he liked Doctor Sophy im- 
mensely, especially since she had given up her practice : he 
liked her because she was so frank, so sensible, so practi- 
cal in her dealings. But she was not a very sympathetic 
% sort of person : not the kind of person, he acknowledged 
to himself, who would be likely to inspire a young girl with 
enthusiasm for another. 

If there was nobody else to perform a needed office, it 
was your plain duty to perform it yourself. That had been 
Maurice Kenyon's motto for many years. It recurred to 
him now with rather disagreeable force. 

Why, of course, he could not go and tell Brooke’s daugh- 
ter that she was a frivolous fool ! What was his conscience 
driving at, he wondered. How could he, who did not 
know her in the least, commit such an act of impertinence 
as tell her how much he disapproved of her ? It would be 
the act of a prig, not of a gentleman. 

Of course he could not do it. And then he began at the 
beginning again, and condoled with Brooke in his own 
heart, and vituperated Brooke’s daughter, and wondered 
whether she was really incapable of being reclaimed to the 
paths of filial reverence, and whether he ought not to 
make an attempt in his friend’s favor. All of which proves 
that if any man deserved the name of a Don Quixote, that 
man was Maurice Kenyon, M.R.C.S. 

Ethel unconsciously gave him the chance he secretly 
desired. He wanted above all things to make Lesley’s 
acquaintance, and to talk to her — for her good — about her 
father. And one afternoon his sister begged him, as a 
great favor to her, to go over to Mr. Brooke’s house with 
a message and a parcel for Lesley. He had been intro- 
duced to her one day in the street, therefore tliere could 
be nothing strange in his going in and asking for her, Ethel 
said. And would he please go about four o’clock, so as 
to catch Miss Lesley Brooke at afternoon tea. 

Maurice told himself that it would be an impertinent 
thing to speak to her about her family affairs, and that he 
would only stay three minutes. At four o’clock he knocked 
at the door of Mr. Brooke’s chocolate^brown house, and 
inquired solemnly for Miss Brooke. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


95 


Miss Brooke was not at home. 

Miss Lesley Brooke then? 

Miss Lesley Brooke was in the drawing-room. Maurice 
went upstairs. 


I 


96 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


CHAPTER XI. 

Brooke's disciple. 

Lesley was sitting in a low chair near a small wood fire, 
which the chillness of the October day made fully accept- 
able. She had a book on her lap, but she did not look as 
if she were reading : her chin was supported by her hand, 
and her brown eyes were gazing out of the window, with, 
as Maurice Kenyon could not fail to see, a slightly blank 
and saddened look. The girl had been now a fortnight in 
London, and her face had paled and thinned since her 
arrival; there was an anxious fold between her brows, and 
her mouth drooped at the corners. If her old friends — 
Sister Rose of the convent, for instance — had seen her, 
they could hardly have recognized this spiritless, brooding 
maiden for the joyous Lisa of their thoughts. 

Mr. Kenyon had only one moment in which to note the 
significance of her attitude, for Lesley changed it as soon 
as she heard his name. He gave her Ethel’s message at 
once and Ethel's parcel, and then stood, a little confused and 
unready for she had risen and was looking as if, when his 
errand was accomplished, he ought to go. Fortunately, 
Doctor Sophy came in and invited him cordially to sit down ; 
rang for tea and scolded him roundly for not coming oftener ; 
then suddenly remembered that one of her everlasting 
committees was at that moment sitting in a neighboring 
house, and started off at once to join her fellows, calling 
out to Lesley as she went to give Mr. Kenyon some tea, 
and tell her father, who was in the library. 

‘‘ My father is out : Aunt Sophy does not know that," 
said Lesley to her visitor. 

“ Then I ought to go ? " said Maurice, smiling. 

Oh, no ! " — Lesley looked disturbed. ‘‘ I did not 
mean to be so inhospitable. The tea is just coming up." 

‘‘ Thank you," said Maurice, accepting the unspoken 
invitation and seating himself. I shall be very glad of 
a cup." 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


97 


She sat down too, veiling the real embarrassment of a 
school-girl by an assumption of great dignity. Maurice 
looked at her and felt perplexed. Somehow he could not 
believe that Brooke’s daughter was such a very frivolous 
girl when he came to look at her. She had a fine brow, 
expressive eyes, a very eloquent mouth. He wondered 
what she was reading. Glancing at the title of the book, 
his heart sank within him. She had a yellow-backed novel 
in her hand, of a profoundly light and frivolous type. 
Maurice was fond of certain kinds of novels, but there 
were others that he disliked and despised, and, as it hap- 
pened, Lesley had got hold of one of these. 

“ You are reading ? ” he said. Am I interrupting you 
very much ? 

‘‘ Oh, no,” Lesley answered, smiling and shutting the 
book. Tea is coming up, you see. I am falling into 
English habits, and beginning to love the hour of tea.” 

Sarah brought in the tea-tray as she spoke ; and even 
Sarah’s sour visage relaxed a little at the sight of the 
young doctor. She went downstairs, and presently 
returned with a plate of small, sweet cakes, which she 
placed rather ostentatiously upon the table. 

Sarah must have brought those cakes especially for 
me,” said Mr. Kenyon lightly, when she had left the room. 

She knows they are my especial favorites. And your 
father’s too. I don’t know how many dozen -your father 
and I have not eaten with our coffee sometimes in an 
evening ! I suppose you are learning to like them for his 
sake ! ” 

He was talking against time for the sake of giving her 
back the confidence that she seemed to have lost, for her 
face had flushed and paled again more than once since his 
entry. But perhaps he was wrong, for she answered him 
with a quietness of tone which showed no perturbation. 

These little macaroon things, you mean ? I like them 
very much already. I did not know that my father cared 
about them. I have been away so long ” — smilingly — that 
I know but little of his tastes.” 

‘‘ I could envy you the pleasure you will have, then ? ” 
said Maurice, quickly. 

Lesley opened her brown eyes. The — the pleasure ? ” 

she faltered in an inquiring tone. 


7 


98 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Yes, the pleasure of discovering what are the tastes 
and feelings of a man like your father,’^ said Maurice. 

Then, as she looked disconcerted still, and as if she did 
not know quite what he meant, he went on, ardently : 

‘‘ You have the privilege, you know, of being the only 
daughter of a man who is not only very widely known, but 
very much respected and admired. That doesn’t seem much 
to you perhaps ? ” — for he thought he saw Lesley’s lip curl, 
and his tone became a little sharp. ‘‘ I assure you it 
means a great deal in a world like ours — in the world of 
London. It means that your father is a man of great 
ability and of unimpeachable honesty — I mean honesty of 
thought, honesty of purpose — intellectual honesty. You 
have no idea how rare that quality is amongst public men 
— or literary men — or journalists. Indeed it is a wonder 
that Brooke is so successful as he is, considering that he 
never wrote or said a word that he did not mean. No doubt 
that seems .a small thing to you : it is not a small thing to 
say of a journalist now-a-days.” 

“ I don’t know much about journalists,” said Lesley. 

But all that you are saying would be taken as a matter of 
course amongst ge7itlemen.^' 

There was a snub for Maurice, and a sly hit at her father, 
too. Maurice began to wax warm. 

‘‘ Miss Brooke,” he said, ‘‘you entirely fail to understand 
me ; and I can imagine that you, perhaps, fail to under- 
stand your father also.” 

“ If I do,” said Lesley, proudly, “ I hardly need to be 
set right by a stranger.” 

The young doctor sprang to his feet. “la stranger ! ” 
he said. “ I, who have known and appreciated and worked 
with Caspar Brooke for the last half dozen years — I to be 
called a stranger by his daughter? I don’t think that’s 
fair : I don’t indeed.” 

He paused and put his tea-cup down upon the table. 
“ If you’ll only think for a minute, Miss Brooke,” he said, 
entreatingly, with such a sudden softening of voice and 
manner that Lesley sat amazed, “ I cannot believe but 
that you’ll pardoivme. I owe so much to your father — he 
has been a guide, a helper, almost a prophet to me, ever 
since I came across him when I was a medical student at 
King’s College Hospital, and I only want everybody to 
sec him with my eyes — loving and reverent eyes, I can tell 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER, 


99 


you, though I wouldn’t say so to everybody, seeing that 
love and reverence seem to have gone out of fashion 1 But 
to his daughter ” 

His daughter surely does not need to be taught how 
to think of him by another, whether he be an old friend 
or a comparative stranger,” said Lesley. She can learn 
to know him for herself.” 

But can she? ” — Maurice Kenyon’s Irish strain, which 
always led him to be more eager and explicit in speech 
than if he had been entirely of Anglo-Saxon nationality, 
was running away with him. Are you sure that she can ? 
Look here. Miss Brooke : you come to your father’s house 
straight from a French convent, I believe. What can you 
know of English life ? of the strife of political parties, of 
literary parties, of faiths and theories and passions ? You 
are plunged into the midst of a new world — it can’t help but 
be strange to you at first, and you must feel a trifle forlorn 

and miserable — at least I should think so ” 

Lesley was in a dilemma. Kenyon’s words were so true, 
so apt, that they brought involuntary tears to her eyes. 
She could get rid of the lump in her throat only by working 
herself up into a rage : she could dissipate the tears only by 
making her eyes flash with anger. The melting mood was 
not to her taste. She chose the more hostile tone. 

Mr. Kenyon, excuse me, but you have no right at all 
to talk about my being miserable. You may know my 
father : you do not know me.” 

But knowing your father so well ” 

That has nothing to do with it. Am I not a separate 
human being? What have you to do with me and my 
feelings ? You say that I do not know English ways — is 
it an English way,” cried Lesley, indignantly, to try to 
thrust yourself into a girl’s confidence, and intrude where 
you have not been asked to enter ? Then English ways 
are not those that I approve.” 

Maurice Kenyon felt that his cause was lost. He had 
gone rather white about the lips asLe listened to Lesley’s 
protest. Of course, he had offended her by his abominable 
want of tact, he told himself — his intrusive proffer of un- 
needed sympathy and help. But it was not in his nature 
to acknowledge himself beaten, and to take his leave with- 
out a word. His ardor impelled him to speak. 

Miss Brooke, I most sincerely beg your pardon,” he 
said, in tones of deep humility. ‘‘ I see that I have made 


loo 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


a mistake — but I assure you that it was from the purest 
motives. I don’t ” — ^forgetting his apologetic attitude for a 
moment — I do?i't think that you realize what a truly 
great man your father is — how ^od, as well as great. I 
don't think you understand him. But I beg your pardon 
for seeming to think that I could enlighten you. Of 
course, it must seem like impertinent interference to you. 
But if you knew” — with a tremor of disappointment in his 
voice — what your father has been to me, you would not 
perhaps be so surprised at my wanting his daughter to 
sympathize with me in my feelings. I had no idea ” — this 
was intended to be a Parthian shot — “ that my admiration 
would be thought insulting.” 

He bowed very low, and turned to depart, vowing to 
himself that nothing would induce him ever to enter that 
drawing-room again ; but Lesley, pale and wide-eyed, 
called him back. 

Stay, Mr. Kenyon,” she said, rising from her seat. 

He halted, his hat in one hand, his fingers still on the 
knob of the door. 

“ I never meant to say,” said Lesley, confronting him, 
‘‘ that I was incapable of sympathy with you in admiration 
for my father. With my feeling towards him you have 
nothing to do — that is all. I am not angry because you 
express your own sentiments, but because ” 

She stopped and bit her lip. 

Because I dared divine what yours might be ? ” 

asked Maurice, boldly, and with an accent of reproach. 

Is it possible that yours can be like mine? and am I to 
blame for saying so ? How can you estimate the worth of 
his work ? You, a girl fresh from school ! I know it is 
very rude to say so, but I cannot help it. If you were 
more of a woman. Miss Brooke, if you had had a wider 
experience of life and mankind, you would acknowledge 
that you could not possibly know very much of what your 
father had done, and you would be glad of the opportunity 
of learning ! ” 

This was just the speech calculated to make Lesley 
furiously angry, and it was with great difficulty that she 
restrained the words that rose impetuously to her lips. She 
stood motionless and silent, and Maurice mistook her 
silence for that of stupid obstinacy, when it was the silence 
of wounded feeling and passionate resentment. He went 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


loi 


on hotly, for he began to feel himself once more in the 
right. 

‘‘ Of course you may know all about him : you may 
know as much as I who have lived and worked at his side, 
so to speak, for the last six years ! You may be familiar 
with his writings : you may have seen the Tribtme every 
week, and you may know that wonderful book of his — 
‘ The Unexplored ^ 1 mean, not the essays — by heart ; 
there may be nothing that I can tell you, even about his 
gallant fight for one of the hospitals last year, or the splen- 
did work he has set going at the Macclesfield Buildings in 
North London, or the way in which his name is blessed 
by hundreds — yes hundreds — of men and women and 
children whom he has helped to lead a better life ! You 
may know all about these things, and plenty more, but 
you can't know — coming here without having seen him 
since you were a baby — you can't know the beauty of his 
character, or the depths of his sympathy for the erring, or 
the tremendous efforts that he has made, and is still mak- 
ing, for the laboring poor. You can’t know this, or else 
I’d tell you. Miss Brooke, what you would be doing ! You 
would be working heart and soul to lighten his burdens 
and relieve him of the incessant drudgery that interferes 
with his higher work, instead of sitting here day after day 
reading yellow-backed novels in a drawing-room.” 

And then, in a white heat of indignation, Mr. Maurice 
Kenyon took his leave. But he did not know the conster- 
nation that he had created in Lesley’s mind. She was 
positively frightened by his vehemence. But she had never 
seen an angry man before — never been spoken to in strong 
masculine tones of reprobation and disgust, such as it 
seemed to her that Maurice Kenyon had used. And for 
what? She did not know. She was not aware that she 
had behaved in an unfilial manner to her father. She did 
not tealize that her cold demeanor, her puzzled and bewil- 
dered looks, had told Mr. Kenyon far more than she 
would have cared to confess about the state of her feelings. 
For the rest, Ethel’s words and Maurice’s vivid imagina- 
tion were to blame. And, angry as Lesley was, she felt 
with a thrill of dismay that Mr. Kenyon’s discourteous 
words were perfectly true. She did not appreciate her 
father ; she did not know anything about him. All that 
she had hitherto surmised was bad. And here came a 


102 


BROOKE DAUGHTER. 


young man, apparently sane, certainly handsome and 
clever, although disagreeable — to tell her that Caspar 
Brooke was a hero, a man among ten thousand, an intel- 
lectual giant, an uncrowned king. It was too ridiculous ; 
and Lesley laughed aloud — although as she laughed she 
found that her eyes were wet with tears. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


103 


CHAPTER XII. 

‘‘ THE unexplored/' 

Lesley retained for some time a feeling of distinct anger 
against Maurice Kenyon, even while she came to ac- 
knowledge the truth of divers of his words. But their 
truth, she told herself indignantly, was no justification of 
his brutality. He was horribly rude and meddlesome and 
intrusive. What business was it of his whether she gave 
her father or not the meed of praise that he deserved ? 
Why should she be lectured for it by a stranger ? Maurice 
Kenyon's conduct — Maurice Kenyon himself — was intol- 
erable, and she should hate him all the days of her life. 

And in good sooth, Maurice's behavior is somewhat 
hard to excuse. He certainly had no business at all to 
attack Lesley on the subject of her feelings about her 
father, and his mode of attack was almost ludicrously 
wanting in judgment and discrimination. But that which 
tact and judgment might perhaps have failed to effect, Mau- 
rice's sledge-hammer blows brought home to Lesley's under- 
standing. He was to blame, but he did some good, never- 
theless. When the first shock was over, Lesley began to 
reflect that her own world had been a narrow one, and that 
possibly there were others equally good. And this was a 
great step to a girl who had been educated in a French 
convent school. 

Part of Lesley’s inheritance from her father, and a part 
of which she was quite unconscious, was a singularly fair 
mind. She could judge and balance and discriminate with 
an impartiality which was far beyond the power of the 
ordinary woman. Being young her impartiality was now 
and then disturbed by little gusts of passion and prejudice ; 
but the faculty was there to be strengthened by every 
opportunity of exercising it. This faculty had been stirred 
within her when Lady Alice first told her of her father's 
existence ; but she had tried to stifle it as an accursed 
thing. She held it wicked to be anything but a partizan. 


104 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


And now it had revived within her, and was urging her to 
form no rash conclusions, to be careful in her thoughts 
about her new acquaintances, to weigh her opinions before 
expressing them. And all this in spite of a native fire and 
vivacity of temperament which might have led her into 
difficulties but for the counterbalancing power of judgment 
which she had inherited from the father whom she had 
been taught to despise. 

So although she raged with all her young heart and 
strength against Mr. Kenyon's construction of her feelings 
and motives, she had the good sense to ask herself whether 
there had not been some truth in what he said. After all, 
what did she know of this strange father of hers, whose 
every action she judged so harshly? She had heard her 
mother’s story, which certainly placed him in a very un- 
amiable light. But many years had gone by since Lady Alice 
left her husband, and a man’s character might be modified 
in a dozen years or so. Lesley was willing to go so far. 
He might even be repentant for the past. Then Sister 
Rose’s words came back to her. She, Lesley, might be- 
come the instrument of reconciliation between two who 
had been long divided ! 

The color flashed into her face and slowly faded away. 
AVhat chance had she of gaining her father’s ear? True, 
she could descant by the hour together, if she had the 
opportunity, on Lady Alice’s sweetness and goodness ; but 
when could she get the opportunity of speaking about 
them to him ? He looked on her with an eye of mistrust, 
almost of contempt. She had been brought up in a school 
of thought which he despised. How far away from her 
now, by the by, seemed the old life with which she had 
been familiar for so many years ! the life of simple duties, 
of easy routine, of praise and tenderness and placid con- 
tentment. She was out in the world now, as other girls 
were who had once shared with her the convent life near 
Paris. Where were they now — Aglae and Marthe and 
Lucile and Anastasie? Did they all find life in the world 
as difficult as Lesley found it ? 

No, there was little chance, she decided, of acting as a 
mediatrix between her parents. Her father would not 
listen to any word she might say. And she was quite sure 
that she could never speak of his private affairs to him. 
They had been divided so many years ; they were strangers 
now, not father and daughter, as they ought to be. 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


105 


Curious to relate, a feeling of resentment against the 
decree that had so long severed her from him rose up in 
Lesley’s heart. It was not exactly a feeling of resentment 
against her mother. Rather it was a protest against fate 
— the fate that had made that father a sealed book to her, 
although known and read of all the world beside. If there 
were admirable things in his nature, why had she been 
kept in ignorance of them ? — why told the one ugly fact of 
his life which seemed to throw all the rest into shadow ? 
It was not fair, Lesley very characteristitally remarked to 
herself : it certainly was not fair. 

If he was so distinguished a man in literature as Maurice 
Kenyon represented him to be, why had she never been 
allowed to read his books ? She wanted, for the first time, 
to read something that he had written. She supposed she 
might ; for there was no one now to choose her books for 
her. Only a day or two before she had dutifully asked 
her Aunt Sophia if she might read a book that Ethel had 
lent her (it was the yellow-backed novel, the sight of which 
had made Maurice so angry), and she had said, with her 
horrid little laugh — oh, how Lesley hated Aunt Sophy’s 
laugh ! 

Good heavens, child, read what you like ! You’re old 
enough ! ” 

And Lesley had felt crushed, but resolved to avail her- 
self of the permission. But where should she find her 
father’s works ? She would cut out her tongue before she 
asked Aunt Sophy for them, or her father, or the Kenyons, 
or Mrs. Romaine. 

She set to work to search the library shelves, and was 
soon rewarded by the discovery of a set of Tribuiies^ a 
weekly paper in which she knew that her father wrote. 
She turned over the leaves, with a dazed feeling of bewil- 
derment. None of the articles were signed. And she had 
no clue to those that were written by her father or any- 
body else. 

She returned the volumes to their places with a heavy 
sigh, and continued to look through the shelves — espe- 
cially through the rows of ponderous quartos and octavos, 
where she thought that her father’s works would probably 
be found. Simple Lesley ! It was quite a shock to her 
when at last — after she had relinquished her search in 
heartsick disappointment — she suddenly came across a 
little paper volume bearing this legend : — 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER. 


io6 

“ The Unexplored. By Caspar Brooke. Price One 
Shilling. Tenth Edition. 

She took the book in her hand and gazed at it curiously. 
This was the wonderful book of which Maurice Kenyon 
had spoken. This little shilling pamphlet — really it was 
little more than a pamphlet ! It seemed an extraordinary 
thing to her that her father should write shillmg books. 
“ A shilling shocker was a name that Lesley happened to 
know, and a thing that she heartily despised. Her taste 
had been formed on the best models, and Lady Alice had 
encouraged her in a critical disparagement of cheap litera- 
ture. Still — if Caspar Brooke had written it, and Maurice 
Kenyon had recommended it, Lesley felt, with flushing 
cheek and suspicious eyes, that it was a thing which she 
ought to read. 

Holding it gingerly, as if it were a dangerous combus- 
tible which might explode at any moment, she hurried 
away with it to her own room, turned the key in the lock, 
and sat down to read. 

At the risk of fatiguing, my readers, I must say a word 
or two about Caspar Brooke’s romance “ The Unexplored.” 
It had obtained a wonderful popularity in all English- 
speaking countries, and was well known in every quarter 
of the globe. Even Lady Alice must have seen it adver- 
tised and reviewed and quoted a hundred times. Possibly 
she had refused to read it, or closed her eyes to its merits. 
Possibly what a man wrote seemed to her of little impor- 
tance compared to that which a man showed himself in his 
daily life. At any rate, she had never mentioned the book 
to her daughter Lesley. She certainly moved in a circle 
which was slightly deaf to the echoes of literary fame. 

‘‘ The Unexplored” was one of those powerful romances 
of an ideal society with which recent days have made us 
all familiar. But Caspar’s book was the forerunner of the 
shoal which the last ten years have cast upon our shores. 
He was one of the first to follow in the steps of Sir Thomas 
More and Sir Philip Sidney, and picture life as it should 
be father than as it is. His hero, an Englishman of our 
own time, puzzled and distressed at the social misery and 
discord surrounding him, leaves England and joins an 
exploring expedition. In the unexplored recesses of the 
new world he comes across a colony founded in ancient 
days by a people who have preserved an idyllic purity of 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


107 


heart and manners, together with a fuller artistic life and 
truer civilization than our own. To these people he 
brings his stories of London as it is to-day, and fills their 
gentle hearts with amazement and dismay. A slender 
thread of love-making gives the book its romantic charm. 
He gains the affections of the king’s daughter, a beautiful 
maiden, who has been attracted to him from the very first ; 
and with her he hopes to realize all that has been unknown 
to him of noble life in his own country. But the book 
does not end with its hero and heroine lapped in slothful 
content. For the heart of the maiden burns with sorrow 
for the toiling poor of the great European cities of which 
he has told her : to her this region has also the charm of 
‘‘ The Unexplored,” and the book ends with a hint that 
she and her husband are about to wend their way, with a 
new gospel in their hand, to the very city of which he had 
shaken the dust from his shoes in disgust before he found 
an unexplored Arcadia. 

There was not much novelty in the plot — the charm of 
the book lay in the way the story was told, in the beauty 
of the language ; and also — last but not least — the burning 
earnestness of the author’s tone as he contrasted the hope- 
less, heartless misery of the poor in our great cities with 
the ideal life of man. His pictures of London life, drawn 
from the street, the hospital, the workhouse, were touched 
in with merciless fidelity : his satire on the modern bene- 
volence and modern civilization which allows such evils to 
flourish side by side with lecture-rooms, churches, intel- 
lectual culture, and refined luxury was keen and scathing. 
It was a book which had startled people, but had also 
brought many new truths to their minds. And although 
no one could be more startled, yet no one could be more 
avid for the truth than the author’s own daughter, of whom 
he had never thought in the very least when he wrote the 
book. 

Lesley rose from her perusal of it with burning cheeks 
and humid eyes. She herself, without knowing it, was in 
much the same position as the heroine of her father’s book. 
Like the girl lone, in The Unexplored,” she had lived in 
a charmed seclusion, far from the roar of modern civiliza- 
tion, far from the great cities which are the abomination of 
desolation in our time. Knowledge had come to her 
filtered through the minds of those who closed their eyes 


io8 BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 

to evil and their ears to tales of sin. She did not know 
how the poor lived : she had only the vaguest and haziest 
possible notions concerning misery and want and disease. 
She was not only pure and innocent, but she was ignorant. 
She had scarcely ever seen a newspaper. She had read 
very few novels. She had lived almost all her life with 
women, and she had imbibed the notion that her marriage 
was a matter which her mother would arrange without 
particularly consulting her (Lesley’s) inclinations. 

To a girl brought up in this vvay there was much to 
shock and repel in Caspar Brooke’s romance. More than 
once, indeed, she put it down indignantly : more than once 
she cried out, in the silence of her room, ‘‘ Oh, but it can’t 
be true ! ” Nevertheless, she knew in her heart of hearts 
that the strong and burning words which she was reading 
could not have been written were they not sincerely felt. 
And as for facts, she could easily put them to the test. 
She could ask other people to tell her whether they were 
true. Were there really so many criminals in London ; so 
many people “ without visible means of subsistence ? ” so 
many children going out in a morning to their Board 
Schools without breakfast ? But surely something ought 
to be done ! How could people sit down and allow these 
things to be ? How could her father himself, who wrote 
about such things, live in comfort, even (compared with 
the wretchedly poor) in modest luxury, without lifting a 
finger to help them ? 

But there Lesley caught herself up. What had Mr. 
Kenyon said? Had he not spoken of the things that 
Caspar Brooke had done? For almost the first time Les- 
ley began to wonder what made her father so busy. She 
had never heard a word concerning the pursuits that Mr. 
Kenyon had mentioned as so engrossing. ‘‘ The splendid 
work at Macclesfield Buildings : ” what was that ? The 
people whom he had lielped : what people ? Whom could 
she ask? Not her father himself — that was out of the 
question. He never spoke to her except on trivial sub- 
jects, She remembered with a sudden and painful flash of 
insight, that conversations between him and his sister were 
sometimes broken off when she came into the room, or 
carried on in half-phrases and under-tones. Of course sh.e 
had heard of Macclesfield Buildings ; and of a club and 
an institute and a hospital, and what not ; but the words 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


109 


had gone over her head, being destitute of meaning and of 
interest for her. She had been blind and deaf, it seemed 
to her now, ever since she came into the house; but Mau- 
rice Kenyon and her father’s book had opened her eyes 
to the reality of things. 

Later on in the day her maid came to help her to dress 
for dinner. Lesley looked at her with new interest. For 
was she not one of the great, poor, struggling mass of 
human beings whom her father called the People? Not 
the happy peasant-class, as depicted in sentimental story- 
books : whether that existed or not, Lesley was not learned 
enough to say : it certainly did not exist in London. She 
looked at the woman who waited on her with keenly 
observant eyes. Her name was Mary Kingston, and Les- 
ley knew that she was not one of the prosperous, self- 
satisfied, over-dressed type, so common amongst ladies^ 
maids ; for she had been out of a situation ” for some 
time, and had fallen into dire straits of poverty. It would 
not have been like Miss Brooke to hire a common-place, 
conveiUional ladies’ maid ; she really preferred a servant 
‘‘ with a history.’’ Lesley remembered that she had heard 
of Mary Kingston’s past difficulties without noting them. 

Kingston,” she said, gently, do you know much 
about the poor ? ” 

Kingston started and colored. She was a woman of 
more than thirty years of age — pale, thin, flat-chested, not 
very tall ; she had fairly good features and dark, expressive 
eyes ; but she was not attractive-looking. Her lips were 
too pale and her dark eyes too sunken for beauty. There 
was a gentleness in her manner, however, a patience in her 
low voice, which Lesley had always liked. It reminded 
her, in some undefined way, of her old friend. Sister Rose. 

I’ve lived among the poor all my life, ma’am,” Kings- 
ton said. 

Do they suffer very much ? ” Lesley asked. 

Kingston looked slightly puzzled. Suffer, ma’am ? ” 

“ Yes — from hunger and cold, I mean : I have been 
reading about poor people in this book — and ” 

Kingston cast a rapid glance at the volume. Her face 
kindled at once. 

“ Oh,” she said, I’ve read that book, ma’am, and what 
a beautiful book it is I ” 


no 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


“ Do you know it ? Lesley asked, amazed. Then, 
moved by a sudden impulse, And you know it was 
written by my father ? ” 

Who would have thought that she could say the last 
two words with such an accent of tender pride ? 

“ No, ma'am, I did not know. Is it really this Mr. 
Brooke ? The name, you see, is not so uncommon as 
some, and I did not think ” 

‘‘ I know, I know," said Lesley, hurriedly. But just 
tell me this — is it true ? Do the poor people suffer as 
much in England as he says they do ? ” 

‘‘ Oh yes, ma’am. I’m afraid so, at least. I’ve seen a 
good deal of suffering in my day.’’ 

Lesley was quiet for a little while, and the woman 
brushed out her shining hair. “ Tell me,’’ she said, what 
is the worst suffering of all — will you ? J mean, a suffering 
caused by being poor — nothing to do with your own life, 
of course. Is it the being hungry, or cold — or what ? ” 

Kingston considered for a moment. “ I think,” she 
said at last, it isn’t the being cold or hungry yourself that 
matters so much as seeing those that belong to you cold 
and hungry. That’s the worst. If you have children, it 
does go to your heart to hear them ask you for something 
to eat, and you have nothing to give them.’’ 

Yes,” said Lesley, softly, ‘‘ I should think that is the 
worst.” 

‘‘ But I don’t know,” said Kingston, in a perfectly un- 
moved and stolid tone, “ whether it’s worse than having no 
candles." 

Lesley looked up in astonishment. 

‘‘ It’s when any one’s ill that you feel that,” the woman 
went on, in the same level tones. ‘‘ In winter it’s dark, 
maybe, at four o’clock, and not light again till nearly nine 
in the morning. It doesn’t matter so much if you can go 
out. But if you have to sit by some one who’s ill, and 
you can’t see their faces, and if they leave off moaning you 
think they’re dead — and perhaps when the early morning 
light comes it’s only a dead face you have to look upon, 
and you never saw them draw their last breath — why, then, 
you feel mad-like to think of the candles that are wasted in 
big houses and of the bread that’s thrown away.” 

Lesley listened, appalled. A homely detail of this kind 
impressed her more than any appeal to her higher imagin- 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


III 


ation. The woes of the po(y had suddenly become real. 

I hope you never had to go through all that, Kings- 
ton/’ she said, very gently. 

Yes, ma’am, twice,” said Kingston. Once with my 
mother, and once with my little boy. They were both 
dead in the morning, but I didn’t see ’em die.” 

But where was your husband ? Was he dead ? ” said 
Lesley, quickly. 

‘‘ Oh, no, ma’am. But he was amusing himself. He 
was a gentleman, you see — more shame to me, perhaps 
you’ll say. I couldn’t expect him to think of things like 
candles.” 

Oh ! — And is he — is he dead ? ” 

‘‘No ma’am, he isn’t dead,” said Kingston. And from 
the shortness of her tone and the steadiness with which 
she averted her face Lesley came to the conclusion that 
she did not want to be questioned any more. 

Lesley went down to dinner feeling that she had made 
some new and extraordinary discoveries. She noticed 
that her father and her aunt made several allusions which 
would have seemed mysterious and repellant to her the 
day before, but which now possessed an almost tragic in- 
terest. When before had she heard her aunt speak casu- 
ally of a Mothers’ Meeting and a Lending Library ? These 
w'ere common-place matters to the ordinary English girl ; 
but to Lesley they possessed the elements of a romance. 
For was it not by means of hackneyed, common-place 
machinery of this kind that cultured men and women put 
themselves into relation with the great, suffering, coarse, 
uncultured, human-hearted poor ? 


112 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

LESLEY SEEKS ADVICE. 

Added to Lesley’s new views of life, there was also a new 
feeling for her father. In the first rush of enthusiastic ad- 
miration for his book, she forgot all that she had heard 
against him, and believed — for the moment — that he Was 
all Maurice Kenyon represented him to be. But naturally 
this state of mind could not last. The long years of her 
mother’s influence told against any claim to love or respect 
on the father’s part. Lesley remembered how bitterly 
Lady Alice spoke of him. She could not think that her 
mother had been wrong. 

It is a terrible position for a son or daughter — to have to 
judge between father and mother. It is a wrong position, 
and one in which Lesley felt instinctively that she ought 
never to have been placed. Of course it was impossible 
for her to help it. Father and mother had virtually made 
her their judge. They said to her, Live for a year with 
each of us, and choose which you prefer. You cannot 
have us both.” And as the only true and natural position for 
a child is that in which he or she can have both, Lesley 
Brooke was in a very trying situation. She had begun life 
in her father’s house as her mother’s ardent partisan ; and 
she was her mother’s partisan still. Only she was not 
quite sure whether she was not going to find that she 
could love her father too. And in that case, I.esley was 
tremulously certain that Lady Alice would accuse her of 
unfaithfulness to her. 

She turned with a sigh from the contemplation of her 
position to her new views of London and modern life. The 
poverty and ignorance of which she read had seemed hate- 
ful to her. But her impulse — always the impulse of gene- 
rous souls — was not to shrink away from this newly-dis- 
covered misery, but to go down into the midst of it and 
help to cure the evil. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


Still blindly ignorant of what was already done, or doing, 
she hardly knew in which way to begin a work that was so 
new to her. Indeed, she hardly estimated its difficulties. 
Ail the poor that she had ever seen were the blue-bloused 
peasants, or brown-faced crones, and quaint little maidens 
with pigtails, who had visited the convent at Fontainebleau. 
She was quite sure that English poor people were not like 
these. Her father knew a great deal about them, but she 
could not ask him. Hie very way in which he spoke to 
her — lightly always, and jestingly — made serious question- 
ing impossible. To whom then should she apply The 
answer presented itself almost immediately, and with extra- 
ordinary readiness — to Mr. Oliver Trent. 

This decision was not so remarkable as it at first may 
seem. Lesley had run over in her mind a list of the per- 
sons whom she could not or would not ask. Her father 
and Miss Brooke ? — impossible. Mrs. Romaine ? — certain- 
ly not. Ethel — Lesley did not believe that she knew 
anything about the poor. Maurice Kenyon? — not for 
worlds. The neighboring clergy ? — Mr. Brooke had said 
that he did not want the Blacks about his house. The 
other men and women whom Lesley had seen were mere 
casual acquaintances ; not friends of the family, like Oliver 
Trent. 

At least, she supposed that Oliver was a friend of the 
family. He was Mrs. Romaine’s brother ; and Mrs. Ro- 
maine was a good deal at the house. In her own mind 
Lesley put him on the same footing as Mr. Kenyon — which 
estimate would have made Caspar Brooke exceedingly 
indignant, could he have known it. For though he did not 
exactly dislike Oliver Trent, he would never have thought 
of classing him with his friend, Maurice Kenyon. 

But Oliver had already called twice on some pretext or 
other, since Lesley had come home : and on the latter of 
these occasions he had sat for a full hour with her in the 
drawing-room, talking chiefly of France and Italy — in low 
and softly modulated tones. Lesley was losing all her 
horror of interviews with young men. If the nuns had seen 
her now they would indeed have thought her lost to all 
sense of propriety. For one of Miss Brooke's chief theo- 
ries was that no self-respecting young woman needs a 
chaperon. And she had flatly refused to chaperone Lesley 
except on inevitable or really desirable occasions. The 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


114 

girl must learn to go about the world by herself/' she had 
said. ‘‘ And I will say this for Lesley, she is not naturally 
timid or helpless — it is only training that makes her so." 
And under this tuition Lesley soon acquired the self-pos- 
session in which she had been somewhat wanting when she 
came, newly-fledged, from her convent. 

So when Oliver called again — it was on a message from 
his sister, and it had not yet recurred to Lesley to wonder 
at the readiness shown by English brothers to run on 
messages to their sisters’ friends — he found Lesley alone, 
as usual, in the drawing-room, and she welcomed him with 
considerable warmth — a warmth that took him by surprise. 

‘‘ I am so glad to see you, Mr. Trent : I wanted to ask 
you something,'’ she said, at once. 

‘‘ Ask me anything — command me in anything,’’ he re- 
plied. 

He sank into a low chair at her right hand, and looked 
quite devotionally into her face. Lesley felt a trifle dis- 
turbed. She could not forget that Oliver was Ethel's lover, 
and she did not think that he ought to look at her so — 
eagerly — she did not know what else to call it. It was a 
look that made her uncomfortable. Nobody had ever 
looked at her in that way before. They did not look like 
that in the convent. 

It is nothing very particular," she said, shrinking back 
a little. “ Only I have nobody to ask." 

I know — I understand," said Oliver, in his softest tones. 
Somehow his sympathy did not offend her, as Mr. Kenyon's 
had done. 

“ It is very stupid of me," Lesley went on, trying to 
smile, ‘‘ not to ask my father or Aunt Sophy ; but I am 
afraid they would only laugh at me." 

I shall not laugh at you," said Oliver, marvelling 
inwardly. 

Won't you ? You are sure ? It is only a little, stupid, 
ordinary question. Do you know anything about Mac- 
clesfield Buildings ? " 

Oliver drew himself up in his chair. Was that the ques- 
tion? He did not believe it. But he answered her un- 
smilingly. 

‘‘ Yes, Miss Brooke. They are the blocks of workmen's 
dwellings where your father has founded a Club. 

Has he? " said Lesley, her eyes dilating. “That is 
— very good of him, isn't it? " 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


”5 


Oh, I suppose so/' Oliver answered, with a little laugh. 

Of course — but I must not insinuate worldly motives into 
his daughter's ears ! " 

Oh, please, go on : I want to hear ! " 

It is nothing wrong. Only if a man wants to stand 
well with the working-people — if he wants votes, for in- 
stance — it isn't at all a bad move to begin with a Working- 
Men's Club." 

Votes, Mr. Trent ? What for ? " 

School Board, or County Council, or Parliament," said 
Oliver, coolly. Or even Board of Guardians. I don’t 
know what your father’s ambitions are, exactly. But 
popularity is always a good thing.” 

Lesley pondered a little, the color rising in her cheeks. 
‘‘ Then," she said, you think my father does good things 
from — from what people call ‘ interested motives ? ' " 

Good heavens, no. Miss Brooke, I never said anything 
of the kind," declared Oliver, somewhat alarmed by her 
straightforwardness. ‘‘ I was only thinking of the general 
actions of man, not of your father in particular.” 

Lesley nodded. “ I don't quite understand,” she said. 
‘‘ But that doesn’t matter for the present. I have another 
question to ask you, Mr. Trent. Do you know anything 
about the poor ? " 

I'm very poor myself,” said Oliver, laughing. Hor- 
ribly poor. 'Pon my word, I don’t know any one poorer." 

Oh, you are laughing at me now,” said Lesley, almost 
petulantly. And you said that you would not laugh.” 

She leaned back in her chair, with heightened color and 
brightening eyes : her breath came a little more quickly 
than usual, as if her pulses were quickened. There is 
nothing so catching as emotion. Oliver’s sluggish pulses 
began to stir at the sight of her. That soft and tender 
face seemed more beautiful to him than the sparkle and 
vivacity of Ethel Kenyon's. If it had not been for Ethel’s 
twenty thousand pounds, he did not know but what he 
would have preferred Lesley. Rosy had said that Lesley 
would suit him best. 

“ I am not laughing ; I swear I am not," he said earnest- 
ly. I know what you mean — you are thinking of the 
London poor. Your tender heart has been stirred by the 
sight of them in the streets — they are dreadful to look at, 
are they not? It is like you to feel their woes so acutely.” 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


Ii6 

“ I want to know,” said Lesley, rather plaintively, 
whether I cannot do anything for them ? ” 

“You — do anything — for the poor?’’ repeated Oliver. 
Then he scanned her narrowly — scanned her shining hair, 
delicate features, Paris-made gown, and dainty shoe — and 
laughed a little. “ You can let them look at you — that 
ought to be enough,” he said. 

Lesley frowned. “ Nonsense, Mr. Trent. What does 
my father do for his Club? ” 

“ Smokes with the men, sometimes, I believe. You 
couldn’t do that, you know ” 

“Although ” and then Lesley stopped short and 

laughed. 

“ Although Aunt Sophy does. It’s no secret, my dear 
Miss Brooke. Half the women in London smoke now-a- 
days, I believe. Even my sister indulges now and then.” 

Lesley gave her head a little toss. “ What else does my 
father do? ” she asked. 

“ Sings to them. Sunday afternoon, that is, you know. 
The wives are allowed to come to the Club-room then, and 
he has a sort of little concert for them — good music, sacred 
music, even, I believe. He gets professionals to come now 
and then ; they will do anything to oblige your father, you 
know — and when they don’t come, he sings himself. He 
really has a very good bass voice.” 

“ Ladies don’t sing, I suppose,” said Lesley, after a little 
pause. 

“Oh, yes, they do. He nearly always has a lady to 
sing. Why don’t you go down on a Sunday afternoon ? 
The club is open to friends of the founder, if not of the 
members, on Sunday afternoons. Don’t Mr. Brooke and 
Miss Brooke always go ? ” 

“ I suppose they do — I never asked where they went,” 
said Lesley, with burning cheeks. She remembered that 
they always did disappear on Sunday afternoons. No, she 
had not asked ; she had not hitherto felt any curiosity as 
to their doings ; and they had not asked her to accompany 
them. She began to resent their lack of readiness to invite 
her to the club. 

“ You might go down on Sunday afternoon,” said Oliver, 
lazily. “ I’m going : they have asked me to sing. Though 
you mayn’t know it, Miss Brooke, I have a very decent 
tenor voice, Ethel is going with me. Won’t you come ? ” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


117 


I don’t know,” said Lesley, nervously. She bethought 
herself that she could not easily propose to accompany her 
father, and that Ethel and Oliver Trent would not want 
her. She would be one too many in either party. She 
could not go. 

But Oliver read the reason of her scruples. If you 
will allow me,” he said, I will ask my sister to come too. 
Then we shall be a compact little party of four, and we 
can start off without telling Mr. Brooke anything about 
it.” 

Lesley hesitated a little, but finally consented. She had 
a great desire to see what was going on in Macclesfield 
Buildings. But Oliver, it may be feared, believed in his 
heart that she went because he was going. And he resolved 
to bestow his society on her rather than on Ethel and Mrs. 
Romaine on Sunday. It was decidedly more amusing to 
waken that still sweet face to animation than to engage in 
a war of wit with Ethel. 

Lesley thought of Oliver very little. Once or twice he 
had startled her by an assumption of intimacy, a softening 
of his voice, and a look of tenderness in his eyes, which 
made her shrink into herself with an instinctive emotion of 
dislike. But she had then proceeded to scold herself for 
foolish shyness and prudery — the prudery of a French- 
school girl, who was not accustomed to the ways of men. 
She had begun to feel herself very ignorant of the world 
since she came to her father’s house. It would never do 
to offend one of her father’s friends by seeming afraid of 
him. So slie tried to smile and looked pleased when Oliver 
drew near, and she was all the more gracious to him be- 
cause she had already quarrelled with Maurice Kenyon, ^ 
who was even more her father’s friend than Oliver himself. 
But what could she do? Mr. Kenyon had insulted her — 
the hot blood rose to her cheeks as she thought of some of 
the things that he had said. Insulted her by assuming that 
she could not appreciate her father because she was too 
careless, too frivolous, too foolish to do so. That she was 
ignorant, Lesley was ready to acknowledge ; but not that 
she was incapable of learning. 

Oliver had no difiiculty in persuading his sister to make 
one of the party on Sunday afternoon. Indeed, Mrs. Ro- 
maine made the expedition easier by inviting Lesley to 
lunch with her beforehand. 


Ii8 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


I asked Maurice and Ethel Kenyon, too/' she said to 
Lesley, “ but they would not come. Mr. Kenyon had his 
patients to attend to ; and Ethel would not leave him to 
lunch alone." 

Lesley did not answer, but privately reflected that if the 
Kenyons had accepted the invitation she would have 
lunched at home. 

She went to church by herself on Sunday morning, for 
Mr. Brooke was not up, and Doctor Sophy frequented some 
assembly of eclectic souls, of which Lesley had never heard 
before. So she went demurely to that ugliest of all Pro- 
testant temples, St. P:incras' Church, and was not very 
much surprised when she perceived that Oliver Trent was 
in the seat behind her, and that he sat so that he could see 
her face. 

I did not know that you went to St. Pancras’,’’ she 
said, innocently, as they stood on Jhe steps together out- 
side when the service was over. 

“ Nor do I," he answered her. “ It is the most hideous 
church I ever saw. But there was an attraction this 
morning." 

Lesley looked as if she did not understand. And indeed 
she did not. 

You are coming to lunch with us, are you not? Will 
you let me escort you ? " 

‘‘ Thank you, Mr. Trent. But — do you mind ? — I shall 
have to call at my father's house on my way. Just to 
leave my prayer-book. It will not take me a minute. 

Oliver could not object, although he was not altogether 
pleased. For Mr. Brooke's house was immediately opposite 
the Kenyons', and Miss Ethel was as likely as not to be 
sitting at the drawing-rooi^ri window. Her sharp eyes 
would espy him from afar, and she might ask Lesley if he 
had been to church with her. Not a very great difficulty, 
but Oliver had a far-seeing mind, and one question might 
lead to others of a more serious kind. 

However, there was no help for it. He paused on the 
steps of number fifty, while Lesley rang the bell. She had 
been formally presented with a latch-key, but the use of it 
was so new to her, and the fear of losing it so great, that 
she usually left it on her dressing-table. 

A maid opened the door and said something to Lesley 
in an under tone. Oliver was looking across the street 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


119 


and neither heard the words nor saw the woman's face. 
But Lesley turned to liim hastily. 

Oh, Mr. Trent, I am so sorry to keep you waiting, 
but I must run up to my aunt for a moment.” 

She disappeared into the house, and then Oliver turned 
and met the eyes of Lesley’s waiting-maid. And at tlie 
same moment he was aware — as one is sometimes aware 
of what goes on behind one’s back — that Ethel, in her 
pretty autumn dress of fawn-color and deep brown, had 
come out upon the balcony of her house and was observing 
him. 

You^ Mary ? ” said Oliver, in a stifled whisper. 

The woman looked at him with hard, defiant eyes. Yes, 
me,” she said. You ought to know that I couldn’t -do 
anything else.” 

He stood looking at her with a frown, 

‘‘ This is the last place where you ought to have come,” 
he said. 

Because they are friends of yours? ” she asked. ‘‘ I 
can’t help that. I didn’t know it when I came, but I know 
it now.” 

Then leave,” said Oliver, still in the lowest possible 
tone, but also with all possible intensity. ‘‘ Leave as soon 
as you can. I’ll find you another place. It is the worst 
thing you can do for your own interest to remain here, where 
you may be recognized.” 

‘‘ I can take care of that,” said Mary Kingston, icily. 

I’ll think over it.” 

Oliver put his hand into his pocket as if in search of a 
coin. But Kingston suddenly shook her head.* ‘‘ No,” 
she said, quickly, I don’t want it. Not from you.” 

And then Lesley’s foot was heard upon the stairs. 

Oliver looked up to Ethel’s balcony. Yes, she was there, 
her hand upon the railing, her eyes fixed on him with what 
was evidently a puzzled stare. Oliver smiled and raised 
his hat. Ethel nodded and smiled in return. But he fan- 
cied — though, of course, at that distance he could not be 
sure — that she still looked puzzled as she returned his bow 
and smile. 

He walked on with Lesley. But his good-humor was 
gone : the usual suavity of his manner was a little ruffled. 
His recognition of Mary Kingston had evidently been dis- 
pleasing as well as embarrassing to him. 


120 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


CHAPTER XIV. 

HOME, SWEET HOME.^' 

Mrs. Romaine and Oliver Trent attributed Lesley’s dersire 
to see Macclesfield Buildings to a young girl’s curiosity, 
and, perhaps, to a desire for Oliver’s company. They had 
no conception of the new fancies and feelings, aims and 
interests, which were developing in her soul. Only so 
much of these were visible as to lead Oliver to say to his 
sister before they sallied forth that afternoon — 

“ I fancy she is getting up an enthusiasm for her father. 
Won’t that be awkward for you ? ” 

Mrs. Romaine was silent for a moment. Then she an- 
swered, with perfect quietness — 

I think it will be more awkward for Lady Alice. It 
may be rather convenient for us.” 

And Oliver noticed that for the rest of the afternoon she 
took every opportunity of indirectly and directly praising 
Mr. Brooke, his works and ways. But he could not see 
that Lesley looked pleased — perhaps Mrs. Romaine's words 
had rather an artificial ring. 

Somehow, it seemed to Lesley as if she hated the expe- 
dition on which she came. AVas it not a little too like 
spying upon her father’s work? He had never invited her 
to Macclesfield Buildings. And he would never know the 
spirit in which she came : it would seem to him as 
though she had been brought in Mrs. Romaine’s train, 
perhaps against her will, to laugh, to stare, to criticize. 
She would rather have crept in humbly, and tried to under- 
stand, by herself, what he was trying to do. What would 
he think of her when he saw her there that afternoon ? 

She was morbidly afraid of him and of his opinion. 
Caspar Brooke would have been as much hurt as astonished 
if he knew in what ogre-like light she regarded him. 

Ethel joined them before they started for Macclesfield 
Buildings, and as rain was beginning to fall, Oliver insisted 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


121 


that they should take a cab. It was for his own sake, as 
Rosalind reminded him, rather than for theirs. He had a 
profound dislike of dirty streets, dirty people, unpleasant 
sights and sounds. And there were plenty of these to be 
encountered in the North London district to which they 
were bound that afternoon. 

The three Londoners — for such they virtually were — 
could hardly refrain from laughing when they saw Lesley’s 
horrified fixee as the cab drove up to the block of buildings 
in which the club was situated. But this is a prison — a 
workhouse — a lunatic asylum ! ” she exclaimed. ‘‘ People 
do not live here — do they — in this dreary place ? ” 

Ah, me, and a dreary place it was ! Three lofty blocks 
of building, all of the same drab hue, with iron-railed bal- 
conies outside the narrow windows, and a great court-yard 
in which a number of children romped and howled and 
shrieked in play : it was perhaps the most depressingly 
ugly bit of architecture that Lesley had ever seen. In vain 
her friends told her of the superior sanitary arrangements, 
the ventilation, the drainage, the pure water laid on ; 
all she could do was to clasp her hand, and say, with 
positive tears in her bright eyes, But w/iy could it not 
all have been made more beautiRil?” And indeed it is 
hard to say why not. 

‘‘ Now we are going down into a coal hole,” said Oliver, 
as he helped the ladies to alight. At least it was once a 
coal-hole. Yes, it was. These four rooms were used as 
storehouses for coals and vegetables until your father rented 
them : you will see what they look like now.” 

Lesley is horrified,” said Ethel, with a little laugh. 

Not at the coal-hole,” Lesley answered, trying also to 
be merry, but at the ugliness of it all. Don’t you think 
this kind of ugliness almost wicked ? ” 

“ Oliver thinks all ugliness wicked,” said Mrs. Romaine, 
maliciously. 

Then we ought to be very good,” said Ethel. But 
Oliver did not answer : he was looking at Lesley, whose 
face had grown pale. 

Are you tired ? — are you ill ? ” he asked her, in the 
gentlest undertones. They were still picking their way 
over the muddy stones of the court-yards, and rough 
children ran up to them now and then, and clamored for a 
penny. “ Is the sight of this place too much for you ? ” 


122 


BROOKE DAUGHTER. 


Oh, no,*’ said Lesley, with a sudden, inexplicable flush 
of color. “ It is not that — it is ugly, of course ; but I do 
not mind it at all.” 

Oliver glanced round suspiciously, as if to discover why 
she had blushed. All that he could see was the tall figure 
of Maurice Kenyon, who was standing in a doorvvay talk- 
ing to somebody on the stairs. Even if Lesley had seen 
him, she surely would not blush for that ! What chance 
had Kenyon had of becoming acquainted with her ? Oliver 
forgot that other sisters besides his own might send their 
brothers on messages. 

Down a flight of stone steps, through a low doorway, 
and into a dark little corridor, was Lesley conducted. She 
noticed that Mrs. Romaine and Ethel were quite accustomed 
to the place. “ We have often been before, you know,” 
Ethel explained. It’s your father’s hobby, you know ; 
his doll’s house, or Noah’s Ark, or whatever you like to 
call it — his pet toy. I always call it his Noah’s Ark my- 
self. The animals walk in two by two. The men may 
bring their wives on Sundays. Oh, by the bye, Lesley, I 
hope you don’t mind smoke. The men have their pipes, 
you know.” 

And then Lesley, dazzled and confounded by her sur- 
roundings, found herself in a brilliantly lighted room of 
considerable size — really two ordinary rooms thrown into 
one. Immediately the squalor and ugliness of the outer 
world were thrown into the background. The walls of the 
room were distempered — Indian red below, warm grey 
above ; and on the grey walls were hung fine photographs 
of well-known foreign buildings or of celebrated paintings. 
In one part of the room stood a magnificent billiard-table, 
now neatly covered with a cloth. A neat little piano was 
placed at the other end of the room, near a large table 
covered with a scarlet cloth, strewn with magazines, papers, 
and books, and decorated with flowers. The chairs were 
of solid make, seated with red leather ornamented with 
brass nails. In fact, the whole place was not only com- 
fortable, but cheery and pleasant to the eye. Lesley was 
told that there was also a library, beside a kitchen and 
pantry, whence visitors could get tea or coffee, “ temper- 
ance drinks,” and rolls or cakes. 

A few women in their Sunday best ” were looking at 
the books and periodicals, or gossiping together, but they 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


123 


were not so numerous as the men — respectable working- 
men for the most part ; some of them smoking, some read- 
ing or talking, without their pipes. In one little group 
Lesley recognized, with a start, that her father was the 
centre of attraction. He was sitting, as the other men 
were, and he was talking: the musical notes of his culti- 
vated voice rose clearly above the hum of rougher and 
huskier voices. Lesley gathered that some proposition 
had been made which he was combating. 

‘‘ No,” he said, I won^t have it. Look here — did you 
open this club, or did I ? ” 

‘‘ You did, guv’nor,” said one of the men. 

Then Til have my say in the management. Some of 
you want the women turned out, do you? It’s the curse 
of modern life, the curse of English and all other society, 
that you do want the women turned out, you men, where- 
ever you go. And the reason is that women are better 
than you are. They are purer, nobler, more conscientious 
than you, and therefore you don’t want them with you 
when you take your pleasures. Eh ? ” 

There was a melodious geniality about the last monosyl- 
lable which made the men smile in spite of themselves. 

’T’aint that,” said one of them, awkwardly. It’s 
because they’re apt to neglect their ’omes if they come out 
of an afternoon or an evening like we do.” 

‘‘ Not they ! ” said Mr. Brooke. ‘‘ To come out now 
and then is to make them love their homes, man. I'hey’ll 
put more heart into their work, if they have a little rest and 
enjoyment now and then, as you do. Besides — you’ve got 
hold of a wrong principle. The women are not your slaves 
and servants ; they ought not to be. They are your com- 
panions, your helpers. The more they are in sympathy 
with you, the better they will help you. Don’t keep your 
wives out of the brighter moments of your lives, else they 
will forget how to feel with you, and help you when darker 
moments come ! ” 

There was a pause \ and then a man, with rather a sullen 
face — evidently one of the malcontents — said, with a growl, 
“ Fine talk, gov’nor. It’ll end in our wives leaving us, 
like they say yours done.” 

There was an instant hiss and groan of disapproval. So 
marked, indeed, that the man rose to shoulder his way to 
the door. Evidently he was not a popular character. 


124 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


We’ll pay him out, if you like, sir,” said a youth ; and 
some of the older men half rose as if to execute the threat. 

‘‘ Sit down : let him alone,” said Mr. Brooke, sharply. 

He’s a poor fool, and he knows it. Every man’s a fool 
that does not reverence women. And if women would try 
to be worthy of that reverence, the world would be better 
than it is.” 

He rose as he spoke, with apparent carelessness, but 
those who knew him best saw that the taunt had stung 
him. And as he moved, he caught Lesley’s eye. He had 
not known that she was to be there ; and by something in 
her expression — by her heightened color, perhaps, or her 
startled eye — he saw at once that she had heard the man’s 
rude speech and his reply. 

He stopped short, grasped at his beard as his manner 
was, especially when he was perplexed or embarrassed ; 
then crossed over towards her, laid his hand on her arm, 
and -spoke in a tone of unusual tenderness. 

You here, my child ? ” 

Lesley thrilled all over witii the novel pleasure of what 
seemed to her like commendation. But she could not 
answer suitably. 

‘‘ Mrs. Romaine brought me,” she said. 

“ Ah ! Mrs. Romaine? ” — in quite a different tone. “Very 
kind of Mrs. Romaine, By the bye, Maurice ” — to Mr. 
Kenyon, who had just appeared upon the scene, and was 
looking with curiously anxious eyes at Lesley — “ the music 
ought to begin now. Is Trent ready? And will Ethel 
recite something ? That’s all right — I suppose Miss Bellot 
will be here presently. 

And leaving Lesley without another glance, he went to 
the piano and opened it. The audience settled itself in its 
place, and gave a little sigh of expectation. Mr. Brooke’s 
Sunday afternoon “ recitals,” from four to five, always 
gave great satisfaction. 

Oliver sang first, then Ethel recited something ; then 
Mr. Brooke sang, and then Oliver played — he was a very 
useful young man in his way — and then there came a little 
pause. 

“A certain Miss Bellot promised to come and sing, but 
she has not appeared,” Ethel explained to her friend. 
“ Lesley, you can sing ; I know you can, for I saw a lot of 
songs in your portfolio the other day. Won’t you give 
them something? ” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


125 


‘‘ Oh, no, I couldn’t ! 

It’s not a critical audience,” said Oliver, on her other 
side. You might try. The people are growing impatient, 
and your father will be disappointed if things do not go 
well ” 

Lesley flushed deeply. A week ago she would have 
thought — What is it to me if my father is disappointed ? 
But she could not think so to-night. 

I have no music here. And I cannot sing properly 
when I play my own accompaniments.” 

Tell me something you Liow and let me see whether I 
can play it,” said Oliver. 

She paused for a moment, then, with a smile in her eyes, 
she mentioned a name which made him laugh and elevate 
his eyebrows. ‘‘Do you know that?” she said. 

“ Rather ! Is it not a trifle hackneyed ? Ah, well, not 
for this audience, perhaps. Yes, I will play.” And then, 
just as Caspar Brooke, with a slight gesture of annoyance, 
turned to explain to tlie people that a singer whom he 
expected had not come, Oliver touched him on the arm. 

“ Miss Brooke is going to sing, please,” he said. “ Will 
you announce her ? ” 

Mr. Brooke stared hard for a moment, then bowed his 
head. 

“ My daughter will now sing to you,’*’ he said, curtly, 
and sat down again, grasping his brown beard with one 
hand. 

“ Can she sing? ” Mrs. Romaine said in his ear, with an 
accent of veiled surprise. 

“ I do not know in the least. I hope it will be English, 
at any rate. These good people don’t care for French and 
Italian things.” 

Mrs. Romaine saw that he looked undoubtedly nervous, 
and just then Oliver began the prelude to Lesley’s song. 
It was certainly English enough. It was “ Home, Sweet 
Home.” 

Every one looked up at the sound of the familiar air. 
“ Hackneyed ” as Oliver had declared it to be, it is a song 
which every audience loves to hear. And Lesley made a 
pretty picture for the eyes to rest upon while she sang. 
She was dressed from top to toe in a delicate shade of 
grey, which suited her fair skin admirably : the grey was 
relieved by some broad white ribbons and a vest ojf soft 


126 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


white silk folds, according to the prevailing fashion. A 
wide-brimmed grey hat, trimmed with drooping grey ostrich 
feathers, also became her extremely well. Mrs. Romaine 
noticed that Caspar Brooke looked at her hard for a minute 
or two, and then sat with his eyes fixed on the ground, his 
right hand forming a pillow for his left elbow, and his left 
hand engaged in stroking his big brown beard. What she 
did not notice was, that Maurice Kenyon had withdrawn 
himself to a post behind Mr. Brooke’s chair, where he 
could see and not be seen ; and that his eyes were riveted 
upon the fair singer with an expression which betokened 
more perplexity than admiration. 

As Lesley’s pure, sweet notes floated out upon the air, 
there was an instant stir of approbation and interest among 
the listeners. If the girl had been less intent upon her 
singing, the unmoved and unmoving stare of these men 
and women might have made her a little nervous. It was 
their way of showing attention. The men had even put 
down their pipes. But Lesley did not see them. She had 
chosen her song at haphazard, as one which these people 
were likely to understand ; but its painful appropriateness 
to her own case, perhaps to her mother’s case as well, only 
came home to her as she continued it. 

“ ’Mid pleasures and palaces — though I may roam — 

Be it never so humble, there’s no place like home. 

A charm from the heart seems to hallow it there, 

Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.” 

If Lesley’s voice faltered a little while singing words with 
which she herself felt forced to disagree, and to which her 
mother had given the lie by running away from the home 
Caspar Brooke had provided for her, the hesitation and 
tremulousness were set down by the hearers as a very 
pretty bit of artistic skill, which they were not at all slow 
to appreciate. Mrs. Romaine put up her eye-glass and 
looked narrowly at the girl during the last few notes. 

“ How well she sings ! ” she murmured in Mr. Brooke’s 
ear. “ Positively, as if she felt it ! ” 

Caspar Brooke gave a little start, left off handling his 
beard, and sat up shrugging his shoulders. “ A good deal 
of dramatic talent, I fancy,” he observed. But he could 
say no more, for me people were clapping their hands and 
stamping with their feet, in their eagerness for another 


BROOKE’S DAUGHTER. 


127 


song; and he was obliged to be silent until the tumult 
abated. 

You must sing again ? ” said Oliver. 

‘‘Must I? Really? But — shall I sing what English 
people call a sacred piece ? A Sunday piece, you know ? 
‘ Angels ever bright and fair ’ — can you play that ? ’’ 

Oliver could play that. And Lesley sang it with great 
applause. 

But, being a keenly observant young person, and also in 
a very sensitive state, she noticed that her father held aloof 
and did not look quite well pleased. And she, remember- 
ing her refusal to take singing lessons, felt, naturally, a 
little guilty. 

She had not time, however, to dwell upon her own feel- 
ings. The assembly began to disperse, for Mr. Brooke did 
not let the hours of his “ meeting encroach on church 
hours, and it was time to go. But almost every man, and 
certainly every woman, insisted on shaking hands with 
Lesley, most of them saying, with a friendly nod, that they 
hoped she'd come again. 

“You’re Mr. Brooke’s daughter, ain’t you, miss ? ” said 
a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, with honest eyes and a 
pleasant smile, which Lesley liked. 

“ Yes, I am.” 

“ I hope you’ll give us a bit of your singing another 
Sunday. ’Tis a treat to hear you, it is.” 

“Yes, I shall be glad to come again,” said Lesley. 

“ That’s like your father’s daughter,” said the man, 
heartily. “ Meaning no disrespect to you, miss. But Mr. 
Brooke’s the life and soul of this place : he’s splendid — 
just splendid ; and we can’t think too high of him. So it’s 
right and fitting that his daughter should take after him.’' 

Lesley stood confused, but pleased. And then the man 
lowered his voice and spoke confidentially. 

“ There was a bit of a breeze this afternoon, just after 
you came in, I think ; but you mustn’t suppose that we 
have trouble o’ that sort every Sunday, or week-day either. 
It was just one low, blackguardly fellow that got in and 
wanted to make a disturbance. But he won’t do it again, 
for we’ll have a meeting, and turn him out to-morrow. I 
would just like you to understand, miss, that a good few 
of us in this here club would pretty nigh lay down our 
lives for Mr. Brooke if he wanted them — for myself I 


128 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


woiildn^t even say ‘ pretty nigh/ for I’d do it in a jiffy. 
He’s helped to save some of us from worse than death, 
miss, and that’s why.” 

‘‘ Come, Jim Gregson,” said a cheery voice behind him, 
you get along home to your tea. Time for shutting up 
just now. Good-bye.” 

And Caspar Brooke held out his hand for the workman 
to shake. He had only just come up, and could not there- 
fore have heard what Gregson was saying ; but Lesley pre- 
ferred to turn away without meeting his eye. For in truth 
her own were full of tears. # 

She broke away from the little group, and went into the 
library, as if she wanted to inspect the books. But in 
reality she wanted a moment’s silence and loneliness in 
which to get rid of the swelling in her throat, the tears in 
her eyes. These were caused partly by excitement, partly 
by an expression of feeling brought to her by the earnest- 
ness of Gregson’s words, partly by penitence. And it was 
before she had well got rid of them that Maurice Kenyon 
put his head into the room and found her there. 

‘‘ We are going now. Miss Brooke,” he said. Will you 
come ? I — I hope I’m not disturbing you — I ” 

‘‘ Lam just coming,” said Lesley, dashing the tears from 
her face. “ I am quite ready.” 

There is no hurry. You can let them go on first, if 
you like,” said Maurice, partly closing the door. Then, 
in the short pause that followed, he advanced a little way 
into the room. 

‘‘ Miss Brooke,” he said, I hope you will not mind my 
speaking to you again ; but I want to say that I wish — 
most humbly and with all my heart — to beg your pardon. 
Will you forgive me ? ” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


129 


CHAPTER XV. 

MAURICE KENYON'S APOLOGY. 

Lesley stood irresolute. In the other room she heard 
the sound of voices calling her own name. We are just 
going, Lesley," she heard Mrs. Romaine say. She made 
a hurried step towards the door. 

I can’t stop," she said. They will go without me." 

‘‘ What if they do ? ’’ asked Mr. Kenyon. I’ll see you 
home." 

Lesley looked amazed, as well she might, at this master- 
ful way of settling the question. And while she hesitated 
Maurice acted, as he usually did. 

He strode to the door and spoke to Miss Brooke. ‘‘ I 
am just showing your niece some of the books : I’ll follow 
in a minute or two with her if you’ll kindly walk on. It 
won’t take me more than a minute.’’ 

“ Then we may as well wait,’’ said Oliver’s voice. 

Lesley would have been very angry if she had known 
what happened then. Mr. Kenyon, by means of energetic 
pantomime, conveyed to the quick perceptions of Doctor 
Sophy a knowledge of the fact that Lesley was a little agi- 
tated and overcome, and that he was soothing her. And 
that the departure of the rest of the party would be a 
blessed relief. 

Aunt Sophy was good-natured, and she had complete 
trust in Maurice Kenyon. 

Don’t stay more than a minute or two," she said. 
“We’ll just walk on then — Caspar and 1. Mr. Trent is, 
of course, escorting your sister. Mrs. Romaine will 
come with us, and you’ll follow ? " 

“ I am quite ready,’’ said Lesley. 

“ All right," answered Maurice, easily, “ I must first 
show you this book.’’ Then he returned to the library, 
and she heard the sounds of retreating steps and voices as 
her father and his party left the building. 


9 


130 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


“ You have no book to show me — you had better come 
at once/^ Lesley said, severely. But Mr. Kenyon arrested 
her. 

“ I assure you I have. Look here : the men clubbed 
together a little while ago and presented your father’s 
works to the library, all bound, you see, in vellum. I 
need not mention that he had not thought it worth while 
to give his own books to the club.^’ 

He showed her the volumes with pride, as if the presen- 
tation had been made to a member of his own family. 
Lesley touched the books with gentle fingers and reverent 
eyes. “ I have been reading ‘ The Unexplored,^ ” she said. 

“ I knew you would ! And I knew you would like it ! — 
I am not wrong ? ” 

“ I like it very much. But it is all new to me — so new 
— I feel like lone when she first heard of the miseries of 
England — I have lived in an enchanted world, where every- 
thing of that sort was kept from me ; so — how could I 
understand? ” 

‘‘I know ! I know ! — You make me doubly ashamed of 
myself. I have lived, metaphorically, in dust and ashes 
ever since we had that talk together. Miss Brooke, I 
must have seemed to you the most intolerable prig ! Can 
you ever forgive me for what I said ? ’’ 

But,^’ said Lesley, looking straight into his face with 
her clear brown eyes, ‘‘if what you said was true? ” 

“ I had no right to say it.” 

“ That is true,” Lesley answered, coldly ; and she turned 
about as though she did not wish to pursue the subject. 

“ But can you not forgive me for it ? I was unjustifiably 
angry I confess \ but since 1 confess it ” 

“ Mr. Kenyon, we ought to be going home. I see the 
woman is waiting to put the lights out.” 

“ We will go home if you like — certainly,” said Maurice, 
in a tone of vexed disappointment. “ Take care of the 
step — yes, here is the door. I am afraid we cannot get a 
cab in this neighborhood ; but as soon as we reach a 
more civilized locality, I will do my best to find one for 
you.” 

By this time they were in the yard. Night had already 
fallen on the city, whether it had done so in the country 
or not. The lamps were lighted in the streets ; a murky 
fog had settled like a pall upon the roads ; and in the Sun- 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


*31 

day silence the church bells rang out with a mournful 
cadence which affected Lesley^s spirits. 

“ London is a terrible place,” she said, with a little shiver. 

‘‘ Can you say that,” he asked, looking at her curiously, 

after seeing the good work that is being done here? If it 
is a terrible place, it is also a very noble and inspiring one.’' 

‘‘ I know I am ignorant,” said Lesley, heavily. It 
seems terrible to me.” 

They were silent for a minute or two, for they were pass- 
ing out of the yard belonging to the ‘‘ model dwellings,” 
as Macclesfield Buildings were called, into the squalid 
street beyond ; and in avoiding the group of loafers smok- 
ing the pipe of idleness, and enjoying the comfortable 
repose of sloth, Lesley and Mr. Kenyon were so far sepa- 
rated that conversation became impossible. 

‘‘You had better take my arm,” said Maurice, shortly, 
almost sternly. “You must, indeed: the place is not fit 
for you. I ought to have gone out and got a cab.” 

“ Indeed, I do not need it. I can walk quite well. 
What other people do, I suppose I can do as well. ” 

“ Miss Brooke, you have not forgiven me.” 

Lesley was silent. 

“ What can I say ? I have no justification. I simply 
let my tongue and my temper run away with me. I am 
cursed with a hot temper : I do not think before I speak ; 
but I never intended to hurt you. Miss Brooke, I am sure 
of that.” 

“ No,” said Lesley, very quietly, “ I understand you. 
If you had not thought me so stupid as not to see your 
meaning, or so callous as not to care if I did, you would 
not have spoken in that way. I don’t know that your ex- 
cuse makes matters much better, Mr. Kenyon. But I am 
not offended : you need not concern yourself.” 

“ Then you ought to be offended,” said Kenyon, doggedly. 
“And I don’t believe you.” 

“You don’t believe me.” 

“No, indeed I don’t.” 

Lesley’s offence was so great now, whatever it had been 
before, that it deprived her of the power of speech. Her 
stately head went up : her mouth set itself in straight, hard 
lines. Maurice saw these tokens, and interpreted them 
aright. 

“ Don’t be angry with me again. I mean that you could 
not fail to despise me, to look down on me, for my want 


132 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


of tact and sense. I thought that you did not understand 
your father — I was vexed at that, because I have such a 
respect, such an admiration for him — but I know now that 
I was mistaken. You ought to be angry with me, for I 
acknowledge that I spoke impertinently ; but having been 
angry, you can now be merciful and forgive. I apologize 
from the bottom of my heart.” 

How do you know that I understand my father ? Why 
have you changed your opinion ? ” said Lesley, coldly. 
“ You have nothing to go upon — ^just as in the other case 
you had nothing to go upon. You rushed to one conclu- 
sion, if you will excuse me for saying so, and now you rush 
to another — with no better reason.” 

‘‘ You are very severe. Miss Brooke,” said Maurice. 

But you are perfectly right, and I must not complain. 

Only — if I may make a representation ” 

Oh, certainly ! ” 

‘‘ 1 might point out that when I spoke to you first 

you had not read your father's book, you had not, I believe, 
even heard of it ; that you knew nothing about the Mac- 
clesfield Club, and that when I spoke to you about his 
work amongst the poor you were very much inclined to 
murmur, ‘ Can any good come out of Nazareth ? ’ ” 

Mr. Kenyon ” 

I beg your pardon. Miss Brooke, but isn't that substan- 
tially true? If you can honestly say that it is a misap- 
prehension on my part, I won’t say another word. But 
isn’t it all true ? ” 

He turned his eager face and bright blue eyes towards 
her, and read in her pale, troubled face a little of the con- 
flict that was going on between her candor and her pride. 
‘‘ Now, what will she say ? ” he thought, with what would 
have seemed to Lesley incomprehensible anxiety. On 
her answer depends my opinion of her, now and for ever.'' 

And this appeared to Maurice quite an important mat- 
ter, though possibly Lesley might not have thought it so. 

She turned to him at last with a frank, decisive gesture. 

‘‘ It is true,'' she said. I knew nothing about his books 
or his works, and so how could I appreciate them? I had 
never heard of ‘ The Unexplored ' before. You are right, 
and I had no business to be so angry. But how do you 
know that I am different now?'' 

Oh, I know you are,'’ said Maurice, confidently. You 
have come to the club for one thing, you see ; and you 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


133 


sang to the people and looked at them — well, as if you 
cared. And you have read ‘ The Unexplored ’ now V 

“ Yes, I have,’' said Lesley, hesitatingly. 

And you like it ? ” 

Yes — I like it.” The girl looked away, and went on 
nervously, hesitatingly. ‘‘ It is very well done,” she said, 
“ It is very clever.” 

“ Oh, if that is all you can find to say about it ! ” 

‘‘ But isn’t it a great deal ? — Mr. Kenyon, I don’t know 
what to say about it. You see I can’t be sure whether it 
is all — true.” 

‘‘ True ? The story ? But, of course ” 

Of course the story is not true. I am not such a goose 
as that. But is the meaning of it true ? the moral, so to 
speak ? Is there so much wickedness in the world as my 
father says ? So much vice and wealth and selfishness on 
the one side : so much misery and poverty and crime on 
the other? You are a doctor, and you must have seen a 
great deal of London life : you ought to know. Is it an 
exaggeration, or is it true ? ” 

There was such intensity and such pathos in her tones 
that Kenyon was silent for a minute or two, startled by the 
vivid reality which she had attached to her father’s views 
and ideas. He could not have answered her lightly, even 
if it had been in his nature to do so. 

Before God,” he said, solemnly, it is all true — every 
word of it.” 

‘‘ Then what can we do,” said Lesley, gently, “ but go 
down into the midst of it and help. ?” 

Mr. Maurice Kenyon, being a man of ardent tempera- 
ment, always vows that he lost his heart to Lesley there 
and then. It is possible that if she had not been a very 
pretty girl, the most noble of sentiments might have fallen 
unheeded from her lips ; but as she was ‘‘ so young, so 
sweet, so delicately fair,” Kenyon could not hear his own 
opinions reciprocated without an answering thrill. How 
delightful would it be to walk through life with a woman of 
this kind by one’s side ! a woman, whose face was a picture, 
whose every movement a poem, whose soul was as finely 
touched to fine issues as that of an angel or a saint ! All 
tliese reflections rushed through his mind in an instant, 
and it was almost a wonder that he did not blurt some of 
them out at once. But Lesley went on speaking in a quiet, 
pensive way. 


*34 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


“ I wonder whether I can do anything — while I am here. 
I shall not have so very long a time, but I might try/’ 

Not so long a time, Miss Brooke ? I thought you had 
come home for good.” 

‘‘ Only for a year,” said Lesley, coloring hotly. ‘‘ Then 
I go back to mamma.” 

Maurice said nothing at first. He felt the hand that 
rested on his arm tremble slightly, and he knew that he 
ought to make no more inquiries. But he could not refrain 
from adding, almost jealously — 

You will be glad of that ? ” 

“ Oh, yes I You do not know my mother ? ” said Les- 
ley, half shyly, half boldly. 

No, I never saw her.” 

^Mt is very hard to be so long away from her. She is so 
sweet and good.” 

But you have your father ? You are learning to know 
him now.’' 

“ Oh, yes, but I want them both,^' said Lesley, with an 
indescribably gentle and tender intonation. And as they 
reached Euston Road and were obliged to leave off talking 
while they threaded their way through the intricacies of 
vehicular traffic, Mr. Kenyon was revolving in his mind a 
new idea, namely, the possibility of a reconciliation between 
Brooke and his wife. He had never thought much about 
Lady Alice before : she seemed to him to have passed out 
of Caspar Brooke’s life entirely ; and if it were not for this 
link between the two — this sweet and noble-spirited and 
lovely girl — she would not have been likely to come back 
into it. But Lesley might perhaps reunite the two, and 
Maurice’s heart began to burn within him with fear for his 
hero’s happiness. Why should any Lady Alice trouble the 
peace of a worker for mankind like Caspar Brooke ? 

They did not talk very much more on their way to Upper 
Woburn Place. They found Ethel and Oliver standing on 
the steps of Mr. Brooke’s house, evidently waiting for the 
truants. It struck Lesley as she came up that Oliver 
Trent’s brow was ominously dark, and that Ethel’s pretty, 
saucy face wore an expression of something like anxiety or 
distress. 

We are almost tired of waiting for you, good people,” 
she began merrily. Fortunately it is fine and warm, or 
we should have gone and left you to your own devices, as 
Mr. Brooke and Rosalind have done.” 


BROCKETS BA [/Off TER. 


135 


Where have they gone ? asked Maurice. 

Walked off to her house. Miss Brooke is at home. 
Lesley, you are an imposition ! Think of having a voice 
like that, and keeping it dark all this time.” 

We shall requisition Miss Brooke for the club very 
often, I know that,” said Maurice. 

You’ll come in with us, Lesley ? ” Ethel asked. 

‘‘ No, thank you, Ethel. Not to-day. Thanks.” 

She wondered a little nervously why Oliver was looking 
so -vexed and — yes, so miserable, too ! He seemed terribly 
out of spirits. Had he and Ethel quarrelled ? The thought 
gave a look of tender inquiry to her eyes as she held out 
her hand to him. And on meeting that sweet glance, 
Oliver’s face brightened. He had been feeling an unrea- 
sonable annoyance with her for walking home with Maurice 
Kenyon, and hqd even in his heart called her ‘‘a little 
French flirt.” Though why it should matter to him that she 
was a flirt, did not exactly appear. 

They said good-bye to each other, and separated. Mau- 
rice went off to see a patient; Oliver accompanied Ethel 
to her own house ; Lesley entered her own home. 

She was alone for an hour or two, and, to tell the truth, 
she felt rather dull. Miss Brooke went away to her circle 
of select souls, and her father, as she knew, had gone to 
Mrs. Romaine’s. She took out her much-prized volume of 
“ The Unexplored,” and began to read it again ; wishing 
that she could talk to her mother about it, and explain to 
her how really great and good a man her father was. For 
— she had got as far as this — she was sure that her mother 
did not understand him. It would have been impossible 
for him to do a mean, a cruel, a dishonorable action. There 
had been a misunderstanding somewhere ; and Lesley 
wished, with her whole soul, that she could clear it up. 

The sound of the opening and closing of the front door 
did not arouse her from her dreams. She read on, holding 
the little paper-covered volume on her lap, deep in deepest 
thought, until the door of the drawing-room opened rather 
suddenly, and her father walked in. 

It was an unusual hour at which to see him in the 
drawing-room, and Lesley looked up in surprise. Then, 
half unconsciously, half timidly, she drew her filmy 
embroidered handkerchief over the book in her lap. She 
had a shy dislike to letting her father see what she was 
reading. 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


*36 

He did not seem, however, to take any notice of her 
occupation. He walked straight to an arm-chair on the 
opposite side of the hearth, sat down, stretching out his 
long legs, and placing his elbows on the arms of the chair. 
The unruly lock of hair, which no hairdresser could tame, 
had fallen right across his broad brow, and heightened the 
effect of a very undeniable frown. Mr. Caspar Brooke was 
in anything but an amiable temper. 

It was with a laudable attempt, however, to keep the 
displeasure out of his voice that he said at length — 

“ I thought I understood you to say, Lesley, that you 
were not musical ! ” 

The color flushed Lesley’s face to the very roots of her 
hair. 

‘‘ I do not think I am — very musical,^' she said, trying 
to answer bravely. I play the piano very little.” 

Of course you must know that that is a quibble,'’ said 
Mr. Brooke, dryly. “ A talent for music does not confine 
itself solely to the piano. I presume that you have been 
told that you have a good voice ? ” 

Yes, I have been told so.” 

‘‘ And you have had lessons ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, a few.” 

‘‘ Then may I ask what was your motive for declining to 
take lessons in London when I asked to do so ? You even 
went so far as to make use of a subterfuge : you gave me 
to understand that you had no musical power at all, and 
that you knew nothing and could do nothing ? ” 

He paused as if he expected a reply ; but Lesley did not 
say a word. 

‘‘ I cannot understand it,” Mr. Brooke went on ; but,” 
— after a pause — “ I suppose there is no reason why I 
should. I did not come to s^y anything much about that 
part of the business. I came rather to suggest that as you 
have a good voice, it is wrong not to cultivate it. And 
your lessons will give you something to do. It seems to 
me rather a pity, my dear, that you should do nothing but 
sit round and read novels — which, your aunt tells me, is 
your principal occupation. Suppose you try to find some- 
thing more useful to do ? ” 

He spoke with a smile now and in a softer voice ; but 
Lesley was much too hurt and depressed to say a word. 
He looked at her steadfastly for a minute or two, and 
decided that she was sullen. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


137 


I will see about the lessons for you/’ he said, getting 
up and speaking decidedly, “and I hope you will make 
the most of your opportunities.* How much time have you 
been in the habit of devoting to your singing every day ? 

“ An hour and a half,” said Lesley, in a very low 
voice. 

“ And you left off practising as soon as you came here ? 
That was a great pity ; and you must allow me to say, Les- 
ley, very silly into the bargain. Surely your own con- 
science tells you that it was wrong? A voice like yours is 
not meant to be hidden.” 

Lesley wished that at that moment she could find any 
voice at all. She sat like a statue, conscious only of an 
effort to repress her tears. And Mr. Brooke, having said 
all that he wanted to say, took up a book, and thought how 
difficult it was to manage women who met remonstrances 
in silence. 

Lesley got up in a few moments and walked quietly out 
of the room. But she forgot her book It fell noiselessly 
on the soft fur rug, and lay there, with leaves flattened and 
back bent outwards. Caspar Brooke was one of the peo- 
ple who cannot bear to see a book treated with anything less 
than reverence. He picked it up, straightened the leaves, 
and looked casually at the title. It was “ The Unex- 
plored.” 

He held it for a minute, gazing before him with wide 
eyes as if he were troubled or perplexed. Then he shook 
his head, sighed, smiled, and put it down upon the nearest 
table. “ Poor little girl ! ” he said. “ I wonder if I fright- 
ened her at all ! ” 


J^ROOKE^S DAUGHTER. 




CHAPTER XVI. 

AT MRS. ROMAINE's. 

The reason why Caspar Brooke spoke somewliat sharply 
to Lesley was not far to seek. He had been to Mrs. Ro- 
maine^s house to tea. The sequence of cause and effect 
can easily be conjectured. 

How charmingly your daughter sang ! ” Mrs. Romaine 
began, when she had got Mr. Brooke into his favorite cor- 
ner, and given him a cup of her best China tea. 

‘‘ Yes, she sang very well,*’ said Brooke, carelessly. 

I had no idea that she could sing 1 Why, by the bye — 
did you not tell me that she said she was not musical ? — 
declined singing lessons, and so on ? 

“ Yes, I think I said so. Yes, she did.’’ 

‘‘ She must be very modest ! ” said Mrs. Romaine, lifting 
her eyebrows. 

“ I don’t know — I fancy she did not want to be indebted 
to me for more than she could help.” 

Mrs. Romaine looked pained, and kept for a few mo- 
ments a pained silence. 

‘‘ My poor friend ! ” she said at last. This is very sad ! 
Could she ” — and Brooke knew that the pronoun referred 
to Lady Alice, not to Lesley — could she not be content 
with abandoning you, without poisoning your daughter’s 
mind against you ? ” 

Caspar said nothing. He leaned forward, tea-cuj) in 
hand, and studied the carpet. It was, perhaps, hard for 
him to find a suitable reply. 

‘‘ It is too much,” Rosalind continued, with increasing 
energy. “You have taken not a daughter, but an enemy 
into your house. She sits and criticizes all you do — sends 
accounts to her mother, doubtless, of all your comings and 
goings. She looks upon you as a tyrant, and a disreput- 
able person, too. She has been taught to hate you, and 
she carries out the teaching — oh, I can see it in every line 
of her face, every inflection of her voice : she has been 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


139 


taught to loathe you, my poor, misjudged friend, and she 
does not disguise her loathing ! ’’ 

It is not quite pleasant for a man to hear that his daugh- 
ter hates him, and makes no secret of the hatred. Caspar 
immediately concluded that Lesley had made some out- 
spoken remarks upon the subject to Mrs. Romaine. 
Secretly he felt hurt and angry : outwardly he smiled. 

'‘What would you have?” he said, lightly but bitterly. 
" Lady Alice has no doubt indoctrinated her daughter, as 
you say ; all that I can expect from Lesley is civility. And 
I generally get that.” 

“ Civility? Between father and daughter ? When she 
ought to be proud of such a father — proud of all that you 
are, and all that you have done ! She should be adoring 
you, slaving for you, ready to sacrifice herself at your 
smallest word — and see what she is ! A machine, silent, 
useless, unwilling — from whom all that you can claim is — 
civility ! Oh, women are capable sometimes of taking a 
terrible revenge ! ” 

She threw her hands out with a gesture of despair and 
deprecation, which was really fine in its way ; then she 
rose from her chair, went to the mantelpiece, and stood 
with her face bent upon her clasped hands. Caspar rose 
too, and stood on the hearthrug beside her, looking down 
at the pretty ruffled head, with something very like affec- 
tion in his eye. 

He did not quite understand this emotion of hers, but 
its sincerity touched as well as puzzled him. For she was 
sincere as far as he was concerned^ and this sincerity gave 
her a certain amount of power, such as sincerity always 
gives. The ring of true feeling in her voice could not be 
counterfeited, and Caspar was flattered by it, as any man 
would have been flattered at having excited so much sym- 
pathy in the heart of a talented and beautiful woman. 

He knew that Alice had been jealous of Rosalind Romaine, 
but, he thought, quite unreasonably so. Poor Rosalind, tied 
to a dry old stick of a husband to whom she did her duty 
most thoroughly, was naturally glad to talk now and then 
to a man who knew something of Art and Life. That was 
simple enough, and he had been glad of her interest and 
sympathy, especially as these were denied to him by his 
wife. There was nothing for Lady Alice to be jealous 
about. And he had dismissed the matter impatiently from 


140 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


his thoughts. Alice had left him because she hated his 
opinions, his manner of life, his profession — not because 
she was jealous of Rosalind Romaine. But Rosalind knew 
better. 

The woman's sympathy affected him so far, however, 
that, after standing silent for a minute or two, he laid his 
hand softly upon her arm. It was a foolish thing to do, 
but then Caspar Brooke was never a particularly wise man, 
in spite of his goodness of heart and fertility of brain. And 
Rosalind felt, by the thrill that ran through her at his touch, 
that she had gained more from him than she had ever 
gained before. What would he say next ? 

Well, he did not say very much. “ Your sympathy, 
Rosalind,” he said, ‘‘ is very pleasant — very dear to me. 
But you must not give me too much of it. Sympathy is 
enervating, as other men have found before me ! ” 

‘‘ May I not offer you mine ? she said, plaintively. “ It 
is so hard to be silent ! If only I could make Lesley un- 
derstand what you are — how noble — how good ” 

Caspar laughed, and took away his hand. 

‘‘ Don't talk to her about me ; it would do no good,'’ he 
said. 

He stood in the firelight, looking so massive, so stern, so 
resolved, that Mrs. Romaine lost herself for a moment in 
admiration of his great frame and leonine head. And as 
she paused he spoke again. 

I have not lately observed much hostility to myself in 
Lesley’s demeanor,” he said. At first, of course — but 
lately — well, I have been more struck by a sort of languor, 
a want of interest and comprehension, than anything else. 
No doubt she feels that she is in a new world ” 

Ah yes, a world of intellect and activity to which she 
has not been accustomed,” said Mrs. Romaine, briskly. 
Since Caspar had removed his hand she had been standing 
erect, watchfully observant of him. It was by his moods 
that she intended to regulate her own. I suppose she 
has been accustomed to nothing but softness and self- 
indulgence ; and she does not understand this larger life to 
which she now has access.'’ 

Poor child ! ” said Mr. Brooke. 

But this was not at all the remark that Mrs. Romaine 
wanted him to make. She tried to beat back the tide of 
paternal affection that was evidently setting in. 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER, 


141 

She wants rousing I am afraid. She ought not to be 
allowed lo sink into a dreamy, listless state. It must be 
very trying for you to see it ; you must be pained by the 

selfishness and waywardness from which it proceeds 

Do you think it does ? said Mr. Brooke, almost wist- 
fully. “ I should be sorry to think Lesley selfish. Sophy 
says that she is more ignorant than selfish. 

“ But what is ignorance save a form of selfishness ? ” 
cried Rosalind, indignantly. “ She might know if she 
chose ! She does know the common duties of humanity, 
the duty of every man or woman to labor for others, to gain 
knowledge, to make broad the borders of light ! Oh, I 
cannot bear to hear ignorance alleged as an excuse for 
self-love ! It is impossible that any one with Lesley’s 
faculties should not see her duty, even if she is idle and 
indifferent enough to let it pass when she does see itT 

Mr. Brooke sat down, regardless of the fact that Mrs. 
Romaine was standing, and looked at the carpet again with 
a sigh. 

‘‘ You may be right,” he said, in a pained tone ; but if 
so, what am I to do ? ” 

‘‘ You must speak to her,” said Rosalind, energetically. 
‘‘You must tell her not to be idle and obstinate and way- 
ward : you must show her her duty, so that she may have 
no excuse for neglecting it.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

‘‘ That’s not a man’s duty, it seems to me. Woman to 
woman, man to man. I wish you would do it, Rosalind ! ” 

“ Oh, no ; I have not a mother's right,” said she, softly. 

But the remark had an effect which she had not antici- 
pated. 

“ That is true. It is a mother who should tell a girl her 
duty. Poor Lesley’s mother has not done all that she 
might do in that respect. Our unhappy quarrel has caused 
her to represent me to the girl in very dark colors, I believe. 
But I have lately been wondering whether that might not 
be amended. Did you hear that man’s taunt this after- 
noon — about the wife that had left me ? I can’t endure 
that sort of thing. Think of the harm it does. And then 
the child must needs go and sing ‘ Home, Sweet Home.’ 
To me, whose home was broken up by her mother. I had 
the greatest possible difficulty in sitting through that song, 
Rosalind. And I said to myself that I was a great fool to 
put up with this state of things.” 


142 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


His sentences were unusually short, his tones abrupt ; 
both covered an amount of agitation which Mrs. Romaine 
had not expected to see. She sat down and remained 
silent and motionless : she even held her breath, not well 
knowing what to expect. Presently he resumed, in a lower 
tone — 

‘‘ I know that if I alter existing arrangements I shall 
give myself some pain and discomfort, and inflict more, 
perhaps, upon others ; but I think this is inevitable. I am 
determined, if possible, to end my solitary life, and the 
solitary life also of a woman who is — I may say it now — 
dear to me.’^ He spoke with deliberate gravity. Mrs. 
Romaine’s pulses beat faster : the hot color began to steal 
into her cheeks. I never wished to inflict pain upon her. 
I have always regretted the years of separation and loneli- 
ness that we have both spent. So I have resolved — per- 
haps that is too strong a word — I am thinking of asking 
her to share my home with me again.” 

Again ? ” The word escaped Rosalind’s lips before she 
knew that she had spoken. 

Yes, once again,” said Caspar, quite unconscious of 
her emotion. We did not get on very well when we lived 
together, but we are older now, and I think that if we made 
a fresh start it might be possible — I wonder if Alice would 
consent ? ” 

There was a moment’s pause. Then — You think of 
asking Lady Alice to come back to you ? ” said Mrs. Ro- 
maine, in a hard, measured voice, which made Caspar 
look at her with some transient feeling of surprise. But 
he put down the change of tone to her astonishment at his 
proposition, and went on unmoved. 

I thought of it — yes. It would be much better for 
Lesley.” 

Are you so devoted to Lesley that you want to sacrifice 
your whole life for her? ” asked Rosalind, in the same hard, 
strained voice. 

‘^My whole life? Well, no — but you exaggerate, Rosa- 
lind. I do not sacrifice my whole life by having my wife 
and daughter in my house.” 

That is plausibly said. But one has to consider what 
sort of wife and daughter yours are, and what part of your 
life will have to be devoted to them.” 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


143 


Brooke sat and stroked his beard. He began to wish 
that he had not mentioned his project to Mrs. Romaine. 
But he could not easily tell her to hold her tongue. 

I am not going to presume/^ said Rosalind, to say 
anything unkind — anything harsh of your wife : I know 
I have not the right, and I know tliat you would — very 
properly — resent it. So don’t be afraid. But I only want 
to remind you that Lady Alice is not even where she was 
when, as an over-sensitive, easily-offended girl, she fled from 
you. She has had twelve years of life under conditions 
differing most entirely from yours. She has lived in the 
fashionable world — a world which of all others you dislike. 
What sympathy can there be between you ? She may be 
perfect in her own line, but it is not your line : you are 
different ; and you will never be happy together.” 

That is a hard thing to say, Rosalind.” 

It will be a harder thing for you if you try it. Believe 
me, Caspar ” — her voice trembled as she used his Christian 
name, which she very seldom did — ‘‘ believe me that if it 
would be for your happiness I would welcome the change ! 
But when I remember the discord, the incompatibility, the 
want of sympathy, which used to grieve me in those old 
days, I cannot think ” 

She stopped short, and put her handkerchief to her eyes. 

Lady Alice could not understand you — could not 
appreciate you,” she said. And it was hard — hard for 
your friends to look on and say — nothmg 

Brooke rose abruptly from his chair. No one ever 
had a truer friend than I have in you,” he said, huskily. 

But it seems to me that Alice may have changed with the 
lapse of years ; she may have become easier to satisfy, 
better able to sympathize ” 

Does she show that spirit in the way she has spoken 
of you to your daughter? What do you gather from Les- 
ley as to her state of mind ? ” said Mrs. Romaine, keen- 

ly- 

He paused. She knew very well that the question was 
a hard one for him to answer. 

Ah,” he said, with a heavy sigh, you know as well as 
I do.” 

Then he turned aside, and for an instant or two there 
was a silence. 

‘‘ I suppose it would not be wise,” he continued, at last. 

But I wish that it could have been done. It would be 


144 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


better in many ways. A man and wife ought to live 
together. A girl ought to live with her parents. AVe are 
all in false positions. And, perhaps, if any one is to be 
sacrificed, it ought to be myself,” he said, with a curious 
smile. 

‘‘ You forget,” said Mrs. Romaine with emotion, ‘‘ that 
you sacrifice others in sacrificing yourself.” 

‘‘Others? No, I don’t think so. You allude to my 
sister? ” 

“ No — not your sister.” 

“ Sophy could go on living with us and managing the 
household affairs,’^ said Brooke, who had no conception 
of what poor Mrs. Romaine meant ; “ and she is not a 
person who would willingly interfere with other people’s 
views or opinions. Indeed, she carries the laisser-faire 
principle almost to an extreme. Sophy is no proselytizer, 
thank God ! ” 

“ I did not mean Sophy : I meant your friends — old 
friends like myself,” said Rosalind, desperately. “ You 
will cast us all off — you will forget us — forget — me /” 

There was unusual passion in her voice. Then she hid 
her face in her hands and burst into tears. Brooke made 
two steps towards her, and stopped short. 

“ Rosalind ! ” he exclaimed. “ You cannot think that ! 
you cannot think that I shall ever forget old friends 1 

Then he halted, and stood looking down at her, and 
biting his beard, which he was crushing up to his lips with 
one hand, after his fashion when he was embarrassed or 
perplexed. Some glimmer of the truth had begun to mani- 
fest itself to him. A hot, red flush crossed his brow. 

“ Rosalind,” he said, in a softer but also a colder tone, 
“you must not take this matter so much to heart. Rest 
assured that I — and my wife, if she comes back, and my 
daughter also — will always look upon you as a very dear 
and valued friend.” 

“ I am so alone in the world,” she said, wiping away her 
tears and slightly lifting her head. “ I c.annot bear to think 
that the day will come when I ” 

She paused — perhaps purposely. But Caspar was re- 
solved to treat the subject more lightly now. 

“ When ^you are without friends ? Oh, that will never 
be. You are too kind and sympathetic to be without as 
many friends as you choose to have.” 

“ And you — yourself ” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


US 


Oh, I am of a very constant disposition,*^ he said, 
cheerfully. ‘‘ I suppose it is for that reason that I want 
Alice back. You know that in spite of all our disagree- 
ments, I have always held to it that I never saw a woman 
half as charming, half as attractive, as Alice.’* 

This was a speech not calculated to soothe Mrs. Ro- 
maine’s wounded feelings, or to implant in her a liking for 
Lady Alice. For Mrs. Romaine was not very generous, 
and she was irritated by the thought that she had betrayed 
her own secret. She rose to her feet at once, with a quick 
and rather haughty gesture. 

‘‘You are indeed a model of constancy,^' she said. 
“ Some men would resent insults, even if offered to them 
by wives. You are capable, it seems, of much forgetfulness 
and much forgiveness.” 

“ Do you think that a fault ? ” asked Brooke, calmly. 

Her mood changed at once. She burst into a shrill 
little laugh. 

“ Oh, not at all. Most convenient — for the wife. There 
is one danger — you may incur the censure of more worldly 
men ; but then you are too high-minded to care for that I *’ 

Caspar shrugged his broad shoulders. 

“ I think I can take care of myself,” he said, good- 
humoredly. “ And now I must go. Pray don't distress 
yourself on my account. I will not do anything rash.” 

They stood facing each other, she with her eyes down, he 
looking straight into her face. Some instinct told her not 
to break the spell by looking up. There was a conflict 
going on in Caspar Brooke’s mind — a conflict between pity 
(not love) and duty. He was a tender-hearted man, and 
it would have been very easy to him just then to have given 
her some friendly, comforting words, or even ” 

Yes, he acknowledged to himself, he would have liked 
to kiss those soft lips of hers, those downcast eyelids, 
slightly reddened by recent tears ! And he did not think 
that she would resent the caress. 

But how could he ask his wife to return to him if he did 
this thing? As he had indicated by his words, he still 
loved Lady Alice. He had the courage to be faithful to 
her, too. For Caspar Brooke was a man of strong convic- 
tions, steadfast will, and stainless honor. However great 
the temptation might be, he was not going to do a thing 
that he knew he should afterwards regret. 

10 


146 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


“ Good-bye, Mrs. Romaine.*’ 

“ Good-bye, Mr. Brooke.'* 

So they took leave of each other ; and Rosalind went to 
bed with a bad headache, while Caspar Brooke returned 
home to find fault with his daughter Lesley. 


BROOKES DAUGHTER. 


147 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE WIFE OF FRANCIS TRENT. 

Far away from the eminently respectable quarter of Lon- 
don, adorned by the habitation of families like the 
Brookes, the Kenyons, and the Romaines, you may find 
an unsavory district in Whitechapel which is known as 
Truefit Row. It is a street of tall and mean-looking 
houses, which seem to be toppling to their fall ; and the 
pavement is strewn with garbage which is seldom cleared 
away. Many of the windows of the houses are broken ; 
many of the doors hang ajar, for the floors are let out in 
flats, and there is a common stair for at least five and 
twenty families. It is a dreary-looking place, and the 
dwellers therein look as dreary as their own abode. 

In one of these houses Mr. Francis Trent had found a 
resting-place for the sole of his foot. It was not a fashion- 
able lodging, not even a particularly clean one ; but he 
had come down in the world, and did not very much care 
where he lived, so long as he had plenty to drink, and a 
little money in his pockets. But these commodities were 
not as plentiful as he wanted them to be. Therefore he 
passed a good deal of his time in a state of chronic brood- 
ing and discontent. 

He had one room on the third storey. The woodwork 
of this apartment was so engrained with grime that scarcely 
any amount of washing would have made it look clean ; 
but it had certainly been washed within a comparatively 
recent date. The wall paper, which had peeled off in cer- 
tain places, had also been repaired by a careful hand ; and 
the curtains which shaded the unbroken window were 
almost spotlessly clean. By several other indications it 
was quite plain that a woman’s hand had lately been busy 
in the room ; and compared with many other rooms in the 
same building, it was quite a palace of cleanliness and 
comfort. 

But Francis Trent did not think so. He sat over his 
small and smouldering fire one dark November afternoo\ 


148 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


and shivered, partly from cold and partly from disgust. 
He had no coals left, and no money wherewith to buy 
them : a few sticks and some coke and cinders were the 
materials out of which he was trying to make a fire, and 
naturally the result W'as not very inspiriting. The kettle, 
which was standing on the dull embers, showed not the 
slightest inclination to “ sing.^’ Francis Trent, outstretched 
on a basket-chair (the only comfortable article of furniture 
that the room contained), gave the fire an occasional stir 
with his foot, and bestowed upon it a deal of invective. 

It will be out directly,^^ he said at last, sitting up and 
looking dismally about him ; ‘‘ and it’s nearly five o'clock. 
She said she would be here at four. Ugh ! how cold it is ! 
If she doesn’t come in five minutes I shall go to the Spot- 
ted Dog. There’s always a fire there, thank goodness, and 
they’ll stand me a glass of sonething hot, I daresay.” 

He rose and walked about the room by way of relieving 
the monotony of existence, and causing his blood to cir- 
culate a little faster. But this mode of activity did not 
long please him, and he threw himself back in his chair at 
last, and uttered an exclamation of disgust. 

Confound it ! I shall go out,” he said to himself. 

But just at that moment a hand fumbled at the latch. 
He called out ‘‘ Come in,” an unnecessary call, because the 
door was half open before he spoke, and a woman entered 
the room, shutting the door behind her. 

She was slight, trim, not very tall : she had a pale face 
and dark eyes, dark, glossy hair, and delicate features. If 
Lesley had been there, she would have recognized in this 
woman the ladies’ maid who called herself Mary Kingston. 
But in this part of tlie world she was known as Mrs. 
Trent. 

Francis did not give her a w'arm welcome, and yet his 
weak, worn face lighted up a little at the sight of her. “ I 
thought you were never coming,” he said, grumblingly^ and 
his eyes fell greedily to the basket that she carried on her 
arm. What have you get there? ” 

‘‘Just a few little things for your tea,” said Mary, depo- 
siting the basket on the table. “ And, oh — what a wretched 
fire ! Have you no coals ? ” 

“ Neither coals nor food nor drink,” he answered, sul- 
lenly, “ nor money in my pocket either.” 

The woman stood and looked at him. “You had two 
pounds the day before yesterday,” she said. 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER, 149 

‘^Billiards/' he answered, laconically. But he turned 
away so as not to see her face. 

She gave a short, sharp exclamation. You promised 
to be careful ! 

The luck was against me,^^ he said. I thought I 
should win, but my hand’s taken to shaking so much that 
I couldn’t play. I don’t see why you should blame me — 
I’ve precious few amusements.” 

She did not answer, but began to take the parcels, one 
by one, from her basket, and place them on the table. Her 
own hands shook a little as she did so. Francis turned 
again to watch her operations. She took out some tea, 
bread, butter, eggs, and bacon. There was a bottle of 
brandy and a bundle of cigars. Francis Trent’s eyes glis- 
tened at the sight. He stole closer to his wife, and put 
his arm around her. 

Youhe a good soul, Mary. You’ll forgive me, won’t 
you } Upon my honor, I never meant to lose the money.” 

“ I have to work hard enough for it,” she said dryly. 

“I know you have I It’s a shame— a d d shame ! 

If I had my way, you should be dressed in satin, and sit 
all day with your hands before you, and ride in your own 
carriage — you know you should ! ” 

‘‘ I don’t know that I should particularly care about that 
kind of life,” said Mary, still coldly, but with a perceptible 
softening of her eye and relaxation of the stiff upper lip. 
“ I would rather live on a farm in the country, and do farm- 
work. It’s healthier, yes, and it’s happier — to my think- 
ing.” 

So it is ; and that’s the life we’ll lead by and by, when 
Oliver pays us what he has promised,” said Francis, eager- 
ly. ‘‘We will have some land of our own, and get far away 
from the temptation of the city. Then you will see what 
a different fellow I’ll be, Mary. You shan’t have reason 
to complain of me then.” 

“ Well, I hope so, Francis,” she said, but not too hope- 
fully. Perhaps she noticed that his hand and eye both 
strayed, as if involuntarily, towards the bottle of spirits on 
the table. And at that moment, the last flicker of light 
from the fire went out. 

“ Have you no candles ? ” she asked, abruptly. 

“ Not one.” 

“ I’ll go out and fetch them, and some coal too. Sit 
down quietly, and wait, I won’t be long. And as I 


150 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


havcn^t a corkscrew, 1^11 take the bottle with me, and get 
it opened downstairs.” 

Francis dared not object, but his wife's course of action 
made him sulky. He did not see why she should not have 
left him the bottle during* her absence : he could have 
broken its neck on the fender. But he knew very well 
that she could not trust him to drink only in moderation 
if he were left alone with the bottle ; and, like a wise 
woman, she therefore took it with her. 

She was back again in a few minutes, bringing with her 
fuel and lights. Francis was lying in his bed, his face 
turned sullenly to the wall. Mary poured a I’ttle I randy 
into a glass, and brought it to him to drink. 

You will feel better when you have had that,” she said, 
‘‘and you shall have some more in your tea if you want it. 
Now, Fm going to light up the fire.” 

So well did she perform her task that in a very short 
time the flames were leaping up the chimney, the shadows 
dancing cheerfully over the ceiling, the kettle hissing and 
puffing on the fire. The sight and sound drew Francis 
once more from his bed to the basket chair, where he sat 
and lazily watched his wife as she cut bread, made tea, 
fried bacon and eggs, with the ease and celerity of a 
woman to whom domestic offices are familiar. When at 
last the tea-table was arranged, he drew up his chair to it 
with a sigh of positive pleasure. 

“ How homelike and comfortable it looks : Why don't 
you always stay with me, Mary, and keep me straight ? ” 

“ You want so much keeping straight, Francis,” she said, 
but a slight smile flickered about the corners of her lips. 

It was characteristic of the pair that he allowed her to 
wait on him, hand and foot : he let her cut the bread, pour 
out the tea, carry his plate backwards and forwards, and 
pour the brandy into his cup, without a word of remon- 
strance. Only when he had been well supplied and was not 
likely to want anything more just then, did he say to 
her 

“ Sit down, Mary, and get yourself a cup of tea.'' 

Mary did not seem to resent the condescending nature 
of this invitation. She thanked him simply, and sat down ; 
pouring out for herself the dregs of the tea, and eating a 
piece of dry bread with it. Francis had the grace to re- 
monstrate with her on the poverty of her fare. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


*51 

“ It doesn^t matter what I eat now,” she said. I have 
the best of everything where I’m living, and I don’t feel 
hungry.” 

I hope you’re comfortable where you are,” said Mr. 
Trent, politely. 

Yes, I’m very comfortable, thank you, Francis. 
Though,” said Mrs. Trent, deliberately, “ I think I should 
be more comfortable if I wasn’t in a house where Mr. 
Oliver visited.” 

‘‘ Oliver ! Do you mean my brother Oliver ? Why do 
you call him Mr. Oliver? It is so absurd to keep up these 
class-distinctions.” 

‘‘So I think,” said Mary, “but when other people keep 
them up it’s not much use for me to be the first to cast 
them over board. Your brother Oliver comes to the house 
where I’m living much oftener than I think he ought.” 

“ What house is it? You never told me.” 

“ It’s Mr. Brooke’s. Mr. Caspar Brooke — him as wrote 
‘ The Unexplored.’ I brought it to you to read, I remem- 
ber — a good long time ago.” 

“Awful rot it was too ! ” said Francis, contemptuously. 
“However, I suppose it paid. What are you doing there? 
Wasn’t it his wife who ran away from him? I remember 
the row some years ago — before I went under. Is she 
dead?” 

“ No, she’s living with her father, Lord Courtleroy. It’s 
her daughter I’ve come to wait on : Miss Lesley Brooke.” 

“ Brooke’s daughter ! ” said Francis, thoughtfully. “ I 
remember Brooke. Not half a bad fellow. Lent me ten 
pounds once, and never asked for it again. So it’s Brooke's 
daughter you — hm —live with. Sort of companion, you 
are, eh, Mary ? ” 

“ Maid,” said Mary, stolidly. “ Ladies’ maid. And 
Miss Lesley’s the sweetest young lady I ever come 
across.” 

Francis shrugged his shoulders. “Your employment is 
causing you to relapse into the manner — and grammar — of 
your original station, Mary. May I suggest ‘ came ’ in- 
stead of ‘ come ’? ” 

Mrs. Trent looked at him with a still disdain. 

“ Suggest what you like,” she said, “ and think what you 
like of me. I never took myself to be your equal in edu- 
cation and all that. I may be your equal in sense and 


152 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


heart and morals 5 but of course that goes for nothing with 
such as you.” 

‘‘ Don't be savage, Mary,” said Francis, in a conciliatory 
tone. I only want you to improve yourself a little, when 
you can. You’re the best woman in the world — nobody 
knows it better than I do — and you should not take offense 
at a trifle. So you like Brooke’s daughter, eh ? ” 

“ Yes, I like her. But I don’t like your brother Oli- 
ver.” 

I know that. What is he doing at Brooke’s house ? 
Let me see — he isn’t engaged to that girl? It’s the actress 
he’s going to marry, isn’t it ? ” 

He had finished his meal by this time, and was smoking 
one of the cigars that his wife had brought him. She, 
meanwhile, turned up her sleeves, and made ready to wash 
the cups and plates. 

‘‘ Tell me all about it,” said Francis, who was now in 
high good humor. ‘‘ It sounds quite like the beginning of 
a romance.” 

There’s no romance about it that I can see,” said Mrs. 
Trent, grimly. Your brother is engaged to Miss Ken- 
yon — a nice, pretty young lady : rich, too, I hear.” 

“ Yes, indeed ! As you and I are going to find out by 
and by, old lady,” and he chuckled to himself at the 
thought of his prospective wealth. 

‘‘ And he ought to be content with that. Instead of 
which, he’s never out of our place ; and when he’s there 
he never seems to take his eyes off Miss Lesley. Playing 
the piano while she sings, reading to her, whispering, sit- 
ting into her pocket, so to speak. I can’t think what he’s 
about, nor other people neither.” 

What does Miss Kenyon say?” asked Francis, with 
sudden sharpness. For it occurred to him that if that 
match were broken off he would not get his two thousand 
pounds on Oliver’s wedding-day. 

‘‘ She doesn’t seem to notice much. Once or twice lately 
I’ve seen her look at them in a thoughtful, puzzled kind of 
way, as if something had set her thinking. She looks at 
Miss Lesley as if she could not quite make her out — though 
the two have been friends ever since Miss Lesley came 
home from school.” 

And the girl herself? ” said Francis, with considerable 
and increasing interest. What does she do ? ” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


153 


She looks troubled and puzzled, but I don't think she 
understands. She's as innocent as a baby," said Mrs. 
Trent, with compassion in her tone. 

‘‘ I wonder what he's doing it for," soliloquized Francis. 
‘‘ He can't marry her." 

Mary Trent paused for a moment in her housewifely 
occupations. “ Why can he not " 

Because well, I may as well tell you as not. I've 

never mentioned it — I don't know why exactly — but I'll 
tell you now, Mary. A few weeks ago, when we were so 
down on our luck, you know — ^just before you began to 
work again — I met Oliver in Russell Square, and told him 
what I wanted and what I thought of him. I brought him 
to terms, I can tell you ! He had just got himself en- 
gaged to Miss Kenyon ; and she has twenty thousand 
pounds besides her profession ; and he promised me two 
thousand down on his wedding-day. What do you say to 
that ? And within six months, too ! And if he doesn't 
keep his word, I shall not hold my tongue about the one 
or two little secrets of his that I possess — do you see ? " 
Perhaps," said Mrs. Trent, slowly, he thinks he could 
manage to pay you the money even if he married Miss 
Brooke? So long as you get the two thousand, I suppose 
you don't mind wliich girl it is ? " 

‘‘Not a bit," answered her husband frankly. “All I 
want is the money. Then we’ll go off to America, old girl, 
and have the farm you talk about. But Brooke's daughter 
won't have two thousand pounds, so if he marries her 
instead of Miss Kenyon, he'll have to look out." 

Mrs. Trent had finished her work by this time. As she 
stood by the table drying her hands there was a look of 
fixed determination on her features which Francis recog- 
nized with some uneasiness. 

“ What do you think about it ? What are you going to 
do? " he asked, almost timidly. 

“ I am not going to see Miss Lesley badly treated, at any 
rate." 

How can you prevent it? " 

“ I don't know, but I shall prevent it, please God, if 
necessary. Your brother Oliver is engaged to one girl, and 
making love' to another, that's the plain English of it ; and 
sooner than see him break Miss Lesley's heart, I'd up and 
tell everybody what I know of him, and get him turned 
out of the house." 


*54 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


“ And spOii my game ? cried Francis, rising to his feet. 
His faced had turned white with anger, and his eyes were 
aflame. She looked at him consideringly, as if she were 
measuring his strength against her own. 

‘‘Well — no,” she said at length, “I won^t spoil your 
game if I can help it — and I think I can get my own way 
without doing that. I want you to win your game, Fran- 
cis. For you know — with a weary smile — “ that if you 
win, I win too.” 

“ Her husband’s face relaxed. “ You’re not a bad sort, 
Polly : I always said so,” he remarked. “ Come and give 
me a kiss. You wouldn’t do anything rash, would you ? 
Choke Oliver off at Brooke’s as much as you like ; but 
don’t endanger his relations with Ethel Kenyon. His 
marriage with her is our only chance of getting out of this 
accursed bog we seem to have stuck fast in.” 

I’ll be careful,” said Mrs. Trent, drily. 

Francis still eyed her with apprehension. “You won’t 
try to stop that marriage, will you ? ” 

“ No, why should I? Miss Kenyon’s nothing to me.” 

Francis laughed. “ I didn’t know where your sympa- 
thies might be carrying you,” he said. “ Brooke’s daugh- 
• ter is no more to you than the other girl.” 

“ I suppose not. But I feel different to her. You can’t 
explain these things,” said Mrs. Trent, philosophically, 
“but it’s certain sure that you take a liking to one person 
and a hate to another, without knowing why. I liked Miss 
Lesley ever since I entered that house. She’s kind, and 
talks to me as if I was a woman — not a machine. And I 
wouldn’t like to see any harm happen to her.” 

“Oh, you may indulge your romantic fondness for Miss 
Brooke as long as you like, if you don’t let it interfere with 
Oliver’s marriage,” said Francis, with a rather disagreeable 
laugh. “ It’s lucky that you did not go to live with Miss 
Kenyon instead of the fair Lesley. You might have felt 
tempted to tell /ler your little story.” 

“ Ay, so I might,” said the woman, slowly. “ For she’s 
a woman, after all. And a nice life she’ll have of it with 
Oliver Trent. I’m not sure ” 

She stopped, and a sombre light came into her deep-set 
eyes. 

“ Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t get on that old griev- 
ance,” said Francis, hastily, almost rudely. Don’t think 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


155 


about it — doiVt mention it to me. If s all very well, Polly, 
for you to take on so much about your sister ; and, indeed. 
Pm very sorry for her, and I think that Oliver behaved 
abominably — I do, indeed ; but, my dear girl, if s no good 
crying over spilt milk, and Oliver’s my brother, after 
all ” 

And he’s going to pay you two thousand pounds on 
his wedding-day,” said Mrs. Trent, with cruel curtness. “ I 
know all about it. And I understand. Why should I be 
above making my profit out of him like other people ? All 
right, Francis : I won’t spoil your little game at present. 
And now I must be getting back.” 

She took up her bonnet and shawl and began to readjust 
them. Francis watched her hands : he saw that they trem- 
bled, and he knew that this was an ominous sign. It some- 
times betokened anger, and when she was angry he did 
not care to ask her to give him money. And he wanted 
money now. 

But she was not angry in the way that he thought. For 
after a moment’s silence her hands grew steady again, and 
her face recovered its usual calm. 

‘‘ I’ve got three pounds here for you, Francis,” she said. 
‘‘And I hope you’ll make it last as long as you can — you 
will, won’t you ? For I shan’t have any more for some 
little time to come.” 

He nodded and took the sovereigns from her hand. A 
touch of compunction visited him as he did so. 

“ Keep one, Polly,” he said. “ I don’t want them all.” 

“Oh, yes, you do. And I have no need of money where 
I am. You’ll not spend it all at billiards, or on brandy, 
will you ? ” 

“ No, Polly, I won’t. I promise you.” 

And he meant to keep his promise. But as matters fell 
out, he was blindly, madly drunk before the same night 
was out, and he had lost every penny that he possessed 
over a game at cards. And plunging recklessly across the 
street, in the darkness of the foggy night, he was knocked 
down by a passing cab, and was carried insensible to the 
nearest hospital. Where let us leave him for a time in 
good and kindly hands. 


156 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

HER EYES WILL SEND ME MAD.” 

It was true, as Mrs. Trent had said, that Lesley’s face often 
now wore a look of perplexity and trouble. This look had 
many differing causes ; but amongst them, not the least 
was the behavior of Oliver Trent. 

Oliver was betrothed to her friend, and she had so much 
faith in the honor and constancy of men, that it never 
occurred to her that he could prefer herself to Ethel, or 
that he should think of behaving as though Ethel were not 
the first person in the world to him. But as a matter of 
fact, he did not conduct himself to Ethel at all as a lover 
should have done. Assured of her love, he neglected her : 
he failed to appear at the Theatre in time to escort her 
home, he forgot his promises to visit her ; he let her notes 
lie unanswered in his pocket. And when she pouted and 
remonstrated, he frowned her into silence, which was not 
at all the way in which her lover ought to behave. 

Of course Lesley did not know this, for Ethel had not 
taken her into her confidence on the subject. But she 
knew very well where Oliver spent his time. Early and 
late, on small excuse or on no excuse at all, he presented 
himself at Mr. Brooke’s house, and made himself Lesley Is 
companion. At first Lesley did not dislike it. She sup- 
posed that Ethel must be busy with her theatrical studies, 
or at rehearsal, and that Oliver was in want of something 
to do. It was pleasant to have the companionship of some 
one younger and more congenial, perhaps, tlian her father 
or Miss Brooke ; and she gained a great deal of interesting 
information from Oliver during the long hours that he 
spent with her in the drawing-room or library. He told 
her a great deal about London society, about modern 
literature, and the fashions of the day ; and all this was as 
fascinating to Lesley as it was novel. He talked to her 
about plays and music and pictures j and he read poetry 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


157 


to her. Modern poetry, of course : a little Browning, and 
a good deal of Rossetti and Swinburne. For amorous and 
passionate poetry pleased him best ; and he knew that it 
was likelier to serve his ends than verse of the more mascu- 
line and intellectual kind. Lesley rather preferred Brown- 
ing and Arnold to Oliver’s favorites, but she was never 
certain of her own taste, and was always humbly afraid 
that she might be making some terrible mistake in her 
preferences. 

She certainly found Mr. Trent’s aid very valuable in the 
matter of her singing. The best singing-mistress in London 
had been found for her, and she practised diligently every 
day ; but it was delightful to find somebody who could 
always play her accompaniments, and was ready with dis- 
criminating praise or almost more flattering criticism. 
Oliver had considerable musical knowledge, and he placed 
it at Lesley’s service. She made a much quicker and more 
marked advance in her singing than she could possibly have 
done without his assistance. And for this she was grate- 
firl. 

At the same time she was uneasy. It was contrary to 
all her previous experience that a young man should be 
allowed to spend so much time with her. She did not think 
that her mother would approve of it. But she could not 
ask Lady Alice, because she had now no communication 
with her : a purely formal letter respecting her health and 
general welfare was all, she had been told, that she would 
be permitted to write. And sooner than write a letter of 
that kind Lesley had proudly resolved not to write at all. 
But she pined for womanly counsel and assistance in the 
matter. 

Miss Brooke was certainly not proving herself an effi- 
cient chaperon. Aunt Sophy had never risen to a clear 
view of her duty in the matter. She herself had never been 
chaperoned in her life ; but had gone about to lectures and 
dissecting rooms and hospitals with a fine indifference to 
sex. But then Doctor Sophy had never been a pretty 
woman ; and no young man had shown a wish to spend his 
spare hours in her drawing-room. She had a strong belief 
in the wisdom and goodness of women — young and old — 
and declared that they could always take care of themselves 
when they chose. And nothing would induce her to believe 
that her niece, Lesley Brooke, required protection or guar- 


158 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


dianship. She would have thought it an insult to her own 
family to suggest such a thing. 

So she treated Lesley’s rather timidly worded suggestions 
on the subject with cheerful contempt, as the conventional 
notions of a convent-bred young woman who had not yet 
realized the strides made in the progress of mankind — and 
especially of womankind. And Lesley soon felt quite sure 
that any complaint or protest of hers would be dealt with 
simply as a sign of weak-mindedness — a stigma which she 
could not endure. So she said nothing, and submitted to 
Oliver Trent’s frequent visits with resignation. 

It must be said, however, that Aunt Sophy had not the 
least notion of the frequency of Oliver’s visits. She was a 
busy woman, and a somewhat absent-minded one ; and Mr. 
Trent often contrived to call when she was out or engaged. 
And when she asked, as she sometimes did ask of Sarah — 
‘‘ Any one called to-day ? ” — and received the grim answer 
— ‘‘ Only Mr. Trent, as usual ” — she simply laughed at 
Sarah’s sour visage, and did not calculate the number of 
these visits in the week. Mr. Brooke himself grew uncom- 
fortable about the matter, sooner than did Miss Brooke. 

Sophy, he said, one day, when he happened to find 
her alone in the library, sitting at the very top of the library 
steps, with an immense volume of German science on her 
knees. Sophy, have you noticed that young Trent has 
taken to coming here very often of late ? ” 

No,” said Doctor Sophy, absently, I haven’t noticed.” 
Then she went on reading. 

My dear Sophy,” said her brother, will you do me 
the kindness to listen to me for a moment ? ” 

Why, Caspar, I am listening as hard as I can ! ” ex- 
claimed Miss Brooke, with an injured air. What do you 
want ? ” 

‘‘ I wish to speak about Lesley.” 

Oh, I thought it was Mr. Trent.” 

‘‘ Does it not strike you that he comes here to see Lesley 
a great deal too often ? ” 

“ Rubbish,” cried Miss Brooke, pushing up her eye- 
glasses. “ Why, he’s engaged to Ethel Kenyon.” 

For all that,” said Mr. Brooke, and then he paused 
for a moment. Did it never strike you that he was here 
very often ? ” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


159 


No,” said Aunt Sophy, stolidly. Haven^t noticed. I 
suppose he comes to help Lesley with her singing. Good 
gracious, Caspar, the girl can take care of herself.” 

‘‘ I dare say she can, but I don’t want any trifling — or — 
or flirtation — to goon,” said Brooke, rather sharply. ‘‘ We 
are responsible for her, you know : we have to hand her 
over in good condition, mind and body, at the end of the 
twelve months. And if you can’t look after her, I must get 
her a companion or something. I’ve been inclined to come 
up and play sheep-dog myself, sometimes, when I have 
heard them practising for an hour together just above my 
head.” 

If they disturb you, Caspar,” began Miss Brooke, with 
real solicitude ; but her brother did not allow her to finish 
her sentence. 

No, no, they don’t disturb me — in the way you mean. 
I confess I should feel more comfortable if I thought that 
somebody was with the two young people, to play propriety, 
and all that sort of thing.” 

I thought you were above such conventionalism,” said 
Miss Brooke, glaring at him through her glasses from her 
lofty height upon the steps. 

‘‘Not at all. Not where my daughter is concerned. 
Children teach their father very new and unexpected les- 
sons, I find ; and I don’t look with equanimity on the pros- 
pect of Lesley’s being made love to by Oliver Trent, or of 
her going back to her mother and telling her that she was 
left so much to her own devices. I am sure of one thing 
— that Lady Alice would not like it.” 

“ And am I to give up all my engagements for the sake 
of sitting with two silly young people ? ” said Miss Brooke, 
the very hair of her head seeming to bristle with horror at 
the idea. 

“■By no means. I don’t see that you need be always 
there ; but be there sometimes ; don’t give occasion to the 
enemy,” said Mr. Brooke, turning to go. 

“Who is the enemy? ” said Doctor Sophy — a spiteful 
question, as she well knew. 

“ The world,” said Caspar Brooke, quite quietly : he did 
not choose to see the spitefulness. 

“ Oh,” said Miss Brooke. “ I thought you meant your 
wife.” But she did not dare to say this until he was well 
out of the room, and the door firmly closed behind him. 


i6o 


BROOKE DAUGHTER. 


But Miss Brooke was neither malicious nor unreasona- 
ble. On consideration she came to the conclusion that her 
brother was substantially right — as a matter of fact she 
always came to that conclusion — and prepared to carry out 
his views of the matter. Only she carried them out in her 
own way. She made a point of being present on the occa- 
sion of Mr. Trent’s next two calls, and although she read 
a book all the time, she was virtuously conscious of the 
fact that her mere presence made all the difference.” 
But'on the third occasion she wanted to go out. What was 
to be done? Miss Brooke’s mind was fertile of resource, 
and she triumphantly surmounted the difficulty. 

‘‘ Kingston,” she said to Lesley’s maid, ‘‘ I am obliged 
to go out, and I don’t like leaving Miss Lesley so much 
alone. You may take your work down to the library and 
sit there, and don’t go away if visitors come in. You can 
just draw the curtains, you know.” 

‘‘ Am I to stay all the afternoon, ma’am ? ” Kingston 
inquired, with surprise. 

Yes. I’ll speak to Miss Lesley about it. I think she 
ought to have some one at hand when I am out so much.” 

So Kingston — alias Mary Trent — took her needlework, 
and seated herself by the library window, whence the half- 
drawn curtains between library and drawing-room afforded 
her a complete view of all visitors to Miss Lesley. 

Oliver Trent was distinctly annoyed by this proceeding, 
but Lesley, although puzzled, was equally well pleased. It 
was an arrangement all the more displeasing to Oliver 
because the waiting-woman who sat so demurely in the 
library, within earshot of all that he chose to say, was his 
brother’s wife. He felt sure that she had contrived it all ; 
that she was there simply to act as a spy upon his actions. 
Francis wanted that money, and would not get it until he 
married Miss Kenyon ; and was evidently afraid — from in- 
formation conveyed to him by Kingston — that he was 
going to break off his engagement. Oliver flew into a silent 
rage at the thought of this combination, which he was never- 
theless powerless to prevent. He went away early that 
afternoon, and came again next day. Kingston was there 
also with her work. And though he sang and played the 
piano as usual with Lesley, although he chatted and laughed 
and had tea with her as usual, he felt Kingston’s presence a 
restraint. And for the first time he asked himself, seriously, 
why this should be. 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, i6i 

Why, of course,” he said to himself, ‘‘ I promised Ro- 
salind to make love to her. And I can’t make love to her 
when that woman’s there. Curse her ! she spoils my plans.” 

He had shut himself up in the luxurious little smoking- 
room which Mrs. Romaine had arranged for him. She knew 
the value of a room in which a man feels himself at liberty 
to do what he likes. She never came there without especial 
invitation : she always said that she preferred seeing her 
brother in her own drawing-room — that she was not like. 
Miss Brooke, and did not smoke cigarettes. But that was 
one of the little ways in which Rosalind used to emphasize 
the difference between herself and the women whom she 
did not love. 

At any rate, Oliver was alone. The curtains were drawn, 
the lamp was lighted, a bright fire burned in the grate. He 
had drawn up a softly-cushioned lounging chair to the fire, 
and was peacefully smoking a remarkably good cigar. 

But his frame of mind was anything but peaceful. He 
had been troubled for some days, and he did not know what 
troubled him. He was now beginning to find out. 

What are my plans, I wonder ? ” he reflected. “ To 
make Lesley fiill in love with me ? — I wish I could ! She is 
as cold as ice ; as innocent as a child: and yet I think 
there is a tremendous capacity for passion in those dark 
eyes of hers, those mobile, sensitive lips ! What lips to kiss ! 
what eyes to flash back fire and feeling ! what a splendid 
woman to win and show the world ! It would be like loving 
a goddess — as if Diana herself had stooped from Olympus 
to grace Endymion ! ” 

And then he laughed aloud. 

‘‘ What a fool I am ! Poetizing like a boy ; and all about 
a girl who never can be my wife at all. That’s the worst 
part of it. I am engaged — engaged 1 unutterably ridicu- 
lous word ! — to marry little Ethel Kenyon, the pretty actress 
at the Novelty. The respectable, wealthy, well-connected 
actress, moreover — the product of modern civilization ; the 
young woman of our day who aspires to purify the drama 
and vindicate the claims of histrionic art — what rubbish it 
all is I If Ethel were a ballet-dancer, or had taken to opera 
boiiffe, she would be much more entertaining I But her en- 
' thusiasms, and her belief in herself and her mission, along 
with that mignonne^ provoking, pretty, little face of hers, 
are altogether too incongruous ! No, Ethel bores me, it 
11 


i 62 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER^ 


must be confessed ; and I have got to marry her — all for a 
paltry twenty thousand pounds ! What a fool I was to 
propose before I had seen Brooke’s daughter. 

If it weren’t for Francis, I would break it off. But 
how else am I to pay that two thousand ? And what won’t 
he do if I fail to pay it? No, that would be ruin — unless 
I choke him off in some other way, and I don’t see how I 
can do that. No, I must marry Ethel, I suppose, or go to 
the devil. And unless I could take bonny Lesley with me, 
that would not mend matters.” 

He threw his cigar into the fire, and stood for some 
minutes looking down at it, with gloom imprinted upon his 
brow. 

“ I must do something,” he said at last. ‘‘ It’s getting 
too much for me : I shall have to stop going to Brooke’s 
house. I suppose this is what people call falling in love ! 
Well, I can honestly say I have never done it in this 
fashion before ! I have flirted, I have made love scores of 
times, but I never wanted a woman for my own as I want 
her ! And I think I had better keep out of her way — for 
her eyes will send me mad ! ” 

So he soliloquized : so he resolved ; but inclination was 
stronger than will or judgment. Day after day saw him at 
the Brookes’ house ; and day after day saw the shadows 
deepen on Ethel’s face, and the fold of perplexity grow more 
distinct between Lesley’s tender brows. 

Kingston had been looking ill and uneasy for some days 
past, and one afternoon she begged leave to go out for an 
hour or two to see a friend. Miss Brooke let her go, and 
went out to a meeting with a perfectly contented mind. 
Even if Oliver Trent came to the house that afternoon it 
would not matter : it would be only ‘‘ once in a way.” And 
Lesley secretly hoped that he would not come. 

But he came. A little later than usual — about four 
o’clock in the afternoon, when there was no light in the 
drawing-room but that of the ruddy blaze, , and the tea-tray 
had not yet been brought up. When Lesley saw him she 
wished that she had sent down word that she was engaged, 
that she had a headache, or even that she was — conven- 
tionally — not at home. Anything rather than a t^te-a-tete 
with Oliver Trent ! And yet she would have been puzzled 
to say why. 


BROOICE^S DAUGHTER. 


163 


His quick eye told him almost at once that she was alone. 
It told him also that she was decidedly nervous and ill-at- 
ease. 

We must have lights/^ she said. ‘‘Then you can see 
my new song. 1 had a fresh one this morning.^' 

“ Never mind the lights : never mind your song/^ he 
said, his voice vibrating strangely. “ If you are like me, 
you love this delightful twilight.’' 

I don’t like it,” said Lesley, with decision. “ I will ring 
for the lamps, please.” 

She moved a step, but by a dexterous movement he 
interposed himself between her and the mantelpiece, beside 
which hung the bell-handle. 

“Shall I ring?” he asked, coolly. It seemed to him 
that he wanted to gain time. And yet — time for what? 
He had nothing to get by gaining time. 

Yes, if you please,” Lesley said. She could not get 
past him without seeming rude. A slight tremor shook her 
frame \ she shrank away from him, towards the open piano 
and leaned against it as if for support. The flickering fire- 
light showed her that his face was very pale, the lips were 
tightly closed, the brows knitted above his fiercely flaming 
eye. He did not look like himself. 

“ Lesley,” he said, hoarsely, and stretching forward, he 
put one hand upon her arm. But the touch gave the girl 
strength. She drew her arm away, as sharply as if a 
noxious animal had touched her. 

“ Mr. Trent, you forget yourself.” 

“ Rather say that I remember myself — that I found my- 
self when I found you ! Lesley, I love you ! ” 

“This is shameful — intolerable ! You are pledged to my 
friend — you have said all this to her before,” cried Lesley, 
in bitter wrath and indignation. 

“ I have said it, but I never knew the meaning of love 
till I knew you. Lesley, you love me in return ! Let us 
leave the world together — you and I. Nothing can give me 
the happiness that your love would bring. Lesley, Lesley, 
my darling ! ” 

He threw his arm round her, and tried to kiss her cold 
cheek, her averted, half-open lips. She would have pushed 
him from her if she had had the strength ; but it seemed 
as if her strength was failing her. Suddenly, with a half- 
smothered oath; he let her go — so suddenly, indeed, that 


164 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


she almost fell against the piano near which she had been 
standing. For the door had opened, and the tall figure of 
Caspar Brooke stood on the threshold of the room. 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


% 


CHAPTER XIX. 

MAURICE KENYONS VIEWS. 

Mr. Brooke advanced quite qiiitely into the room. Per- 
haps he had not seen or heard so very much. Certainly 
he glanced very keenly — first at Lesley, who leaned half- 
fainting against the piano, and then at Oliver Trent, who 
had slunk backwards to the rug before the fire ; but he 
said nothing, and for a minute or two an embarrassed 
silence prevailed in the room. Lesley then raised herself 
up a little, and Oliver began to speak. 

‘‘ I was just going,’* he said, with a nervous attempt at a 
laugh. “ I haven’t much lime to-night, and was just hur- 
rying away. I must come in another time.” 

Mr. Brooke took up a commanding position on the rug, 
put his hands in his pockets, and surveyed the room in 
silence. Perhaps Oliver felt the silence to be ominous, for 
he did not try to shake hands or to utter any common- 
places, but took his leave with a hurried Good-afternoon 
that neither father nor daughter returned. The door shut 
behind him : they heard the sound of his footsteps on the 
stairs and the closing of the hall door. Then Lesley bestirred 
herself with the sensation of a wounded animal that wishes 
to hide its hurt : she wanted to get away and seek the dark- 
ness and solitude of her room upstairs. But before she 
reached the door Mr. Brooke’s voice arrested her. 

Lesley.'’ 

She stopped short, and looked at him. Her heart beat 
so suffocatingly loud and fast that she could not speak. 

‘‘ I don’t trust that young man, Lesley,” was what her 
father said quite quietly. 

Then there was a pause. Lesley was still tongue-tied, 
and Mr. Brooke did not seem to know what to do or say. 
He walked away from the fire and began to finger some 
papers on a table, although it was quite too dark to see 
any of these. Inwardly he was wondering how much or 
how little he ought to say. 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


1 66 

‘‘ I wish he would not come quite so often, he remarked. 

“ Oh, so do I said Lesley, with heartfelt warmth. 

“ Do you ? Why, child, I thought you liked him !’ 

“ I never liked him much,” said Lesley, faltering. 

“ And yet you have allowed him to come here day after 
day and ])ractise with you? The ways of women are in- 
scrutable,” said Mr. Brooke, grimly, “and I can’t profess 
to understand them. If you did not wish him to come, 
there was nothing to do but to close your doors against 
him.” 

“ I shall be only too glad,” said Lesley, eagerly. 

“ Oh — noto 1 That is unnecessary : 1 shall do it myself,” 
said her father, with the same dryness of tone that always 
made Lesley feel as if she were withering up to nothing- 
ness. 

“ I doiVt think he is very likely to come,” she said, in a 
very low tone. Then, witli a quick imj)ulse to clear her- 
self, and an effort which brought the blood in a burning 
tide to her fair face, she went on, hurriedly — “Father, you 
don’t think I forgot that he ” — and then she almost broke 
down, and “ Ethel ” was the only word that struck dis- 
tinctly upon his ear. 

“ You mean,” said Mr. Brooke, that you do not forget 
that he is going to marry Ethel Kenyon ? Perhaps not ; 
but I thing that he does.” 

“ I am not to blame for that,” said Lesley, with a flash 
of the hot temper that occasionally leaped to light when she 
was talking with her father. 

Brooke made no immediate answer. He took a match 
box from his pocket, struck a match, and began to light 
the wax candles on the mantelpiece — partly by way of find- 
ing something to do, partly because he thought that he 
should like to see his daughter’s face. 

It was a very downcast face just then, but it was tinged 
with the hot flush of mingled pride and shame with which 
she had spoken, and never had it looked more lovely. The 
father considered it for a moment, less with admiration 
than with curiosity : this daughter of his was an unknown 
quantity : he never could predicate what she would do or 
say. Certainly she surprised him once more when she 
lifted her head, and said, quickly — 

“ I don’t think I understand your English ways. I know 
what we should do at the convent ^ but I never know whc- 


BROOKE DA UGHTER^ 167 

ther I am right or wrong here. And I have no one to 
ask.” 

There is your Aunt Sophy.’' 

^‘It is almost impossible to ask Aunt Sophy; she never 
sees where the difficulty lies. I know she is kind — but she 
does not understand what I want.” 

Caspar nodded. That is one reason why I spoke to 
you just now/’ he said, much more gently than usual. I 
knew that she was a little brusque sometimes ; and I sup- 
pose I am not much better. As a rule a father does not 
talk to his girls as I have been talking to you, I fancy. 
I am almost as ignorant of a father’s duties to his daughter 
as you say you are of the habits of English bourgeois 
society — for I suppose that is what you mean?” 

He smiled a little — the slight smile of a satire which Les- 
ley always dreaded ; and yet, she remembered, his voice 
had been very kind. It softened again into its gentlest 
and most musical tones, as he said — 

You must take us as you find us, child : we shall not 
do you much harm, and it will not be for long.” 

Lesley was emboldened by the gentle intonation to draw 
closer to him, and to lay an entreating hand upon his arm. 

Oh, father,” she said, ‘‘ if you would but let me write to 
mamma ! ” 

And then she uttered a little sob, and the tears filled her 
eyes and ran down her cheeks. As for Caspar Brooke, he 
stood like a man amazed, and repeated her words almost 
stupidly. 

Write to mamma he said. 

‘‘ It would do me good : it would not do any harm,” said 
Lesley, hurriedly, brokenly, and clasping his arm with both 
hands to enforce her plea. I would not tell her anything 
that you did not like : I should never say anything but 
good about you ; but, oh, there are so many things that 
puzzle me, and that I should like to consult her about. You 
see, although I was not much with her, I used to write to 
her twice a week, and she wrote to me oftener, sometimes ; 
and I told her everything, and she used to advise me and 
help me ! And I miss it so much — it is that that makes me 
unhappy ; it seems so hard never to write and never to hear 
from her ! I feel sometimes as if I could not bear it ; as if 
I should have to run away to her again and tell her every- 
thing ! Nobody is like her — nobody — and to be a year 
without her is terrible 1 ” 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


j63 

And Lesley put her head down on her father’s arm and 
cried unrestrainedly, with a sort of newborn instinct that 
he sympathized with her, and would not repulse her confi- 
dence. 

As for Caspar Brooke, his face had turned quite pale : he 
stood like a statue, with features rigidly set, listening to 
Lesley’s outburst of pleading words. It took him a little 
time to find his voice, even when he had at last assimilated 
the ideas contained in her speech and regained his self- 
possession. It took him still longer to recover from a 
certain shock of surprise. 

Write to your mother !” he exclaimed. “ Well, but, 
of course — why should you not write to your mother .> ” 

And then Lesley raised her head and looked at him with 
such amazement and perplexity that her father felt abso- 
lutely annoyed. 

Who on earth put it into your head that you might 
not write? Am I such a tyrant — such an unfeeling mon- 
ster ? Good heavens! what extraordinary idea is this ! 

Who said that you were not to write to her ? ” 

“ My mother herself,” said Lesley, drawing herself a little 
away from him, and still looking into his face. 

“ Your mother ? Absurd I Why, what — what ” 

He faltered, frowned, turned away to the mantelpiece, 
and struck his hand heavily upon it. 

I never meant that,^^ he said. It seemed as if vexa- 
tion and astonishment prevented him from saying more. 

‘‘ My mother said that it was agreed — years ago — that 
when I came to you, we were to have no communication,” 
said Lesley, trembling, and yet resolute to have her say. 
‘‘ Was not that so ? ” 

‘‘ I remember something of the sort,” he answered, 
reluctantly, frowning still and looking down. I did not 
think at the time of what it implied. And when the time 
drew near for you to make the visit, the question was not 
raised. We corresponded througli a third party — the 
lawyer, you know. Perhaps — at the time — I had an idea 
of preventing letters, but not recently. Nobody mentioned 
it- Why ” — his anger rising, as a man’s anger often does 
rise when he perceives himself to have been in the wrong 
— your mother might at least have mentioned it if she 
felt any doubt ! ” 

‘‘ I suppose,” said Lesley, rather haughtily, that my 
mother did not want to ask a favor of you.” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


169 


He flung himself round at that. ‘‘Your mother must 
have given you a strange idea of me ! he said, with a 
mixture of anger and mortification which it humiliated him 
to show, even while he could not manage to hide it. “ One 
would have said I was an ogre — a maniac. But she mis- 
judged me all her life — it is useless to expect anything else 
— of course she would try to bias you ! ” 

“ I never knew that you were even alive until the day 
that I left the convent,” said Lesley. “ My mother cer- 
tainly did not try to prejudice me before then : she simply 
kept silence.” 

“ Silence is the worst condemnation ? What had I done 
that I should be separated from my child so completely ? 
said the man, the bitterness of years displaying itself in a 
way as unexpected to him as to his daughter. “ It is not 
my fault, I swear, that I have lived without a wife, with- 
out — well, well ! it is not you to whom I ought to say this. 
We will not refer to it again. About this letter writing — . 
I might say, as perhaps I did say at the time the arrange- 
ment was made, that surely I had a right to claim you 
entirely for one year at least ; but I don’t — I won’t. If I 
did ever say so, Lesley, I regret the words exceedingly. 
Ever since you came to me, I have had no idea but that 
you were writing to her regularly and freely ; and I never 
— never in my right mind — wished it otherwise.” 

“ But mamma talked of an agreement 

“ That was years ago. I must have said something in 
my heat which the lawyers — the people who arranged 
things — interpreted wrongly. And your mother, as you 
say, did not care to ask me for anything. I can only say, 
Lesley, that I am sorry the mistake arose.” 

His voice was grave and cold again, almost indifferent. 
He stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his hand sup- 
porting his head, his eyes averted from tlie girl. A close 
eye might have observed that the veins of his forehead were 
swollen, and the pulse at his temple was beating furiously : 
otherwise he had mastered all signs of agitation. Lesley 
hesitated a moment : then came up to him, and put her 
slim fingers into his hand. 

“ Father,” she said, softly, “ if we have misjudged you — 
mamma and I — won’t you forgive us-? ” 

For answer he took her face between his two hands, 
bent down and kissed it tenderly. 


170 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


“ You don’t remember sitting on my knee when you 
were a tiny little thing, do you ? ” he asked her. You 
would not go to sleep at nights without a kiss from me 
before I went out. You were rather fond of me then, 
child ! I wish things had turned out differently!” 

He spoke sadly, and Lesley returned his kiss with a new 
feeling of affection of which she had not been conscious 
before, but which she would have found it difficult to trans- 
late into words. Before she could manage to reply, the 
handle of the door was turned, and father and daughter 
stood apart as quickly as if they had had no right to stand 
with arms enlaced and faces almost touching : indeed, the 
situation was so new to both of them that they felt some- 
thing like shame and alarm as they turned to meet the 
expected Doctor Sophy. 

But it was not Doctor Sophy. It was Sarah with the 
tea-tray, very resentful at not having had it rung for earlier 
— she having been instructed not to bring it up until Miss 
Lesley rang the bell. And after Sarah came Mr. Maurice 
Kenyon, unannounced, after his usual fashion. And on 
hearing his voice, Lesley slipped away between the curtains 
into the library, and upstairs, through the library door. 

Why, Brooke, old fellow, you’re not often to be found 
here at this hour I began Maurice. He looked on Caspar 
Brooke as a prophet and a hero in his heart ; but his man- 
ner before the world was characterized by the frankest 
irreverence. Brooke was one of those men who are never 
older than their companions. 

Well, you must be neglecting your patients shamefully 
to be here at all. What do you want at this feminine 
meal ? ” 

“ I didn’t come for tea,” said Maurice, actually growing 
a little redder as he spoke. ‘‘ I came to see Miss Brooke.” 

Oh, she’s gone to a meeting of some Medical Associa- 
tion or other,” said Caspar, indifferently, as he sat down 
in Lesley’s place at the dainty tea-table, and poured out a cup 
of tea with the manner of a man who was accustomed lo 
serving himself. Here, help yourself to sugar and cream.” 

‘‘ Thanks, I won’t have any tea. I did not mean your 
sister : I meant Miss Lesley — I thought I saw her as I 
came in.” 

Anything important ? ” said Caspar, blandly. He 
was certain that Lesley had gone away to cry — women 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


171 

always cry ! — and he did not want her to be disturbed. 
Although he had quarrelled with his wife, he understood 
feminine susceptibilities better than most men. 

Oh, no. Only to ask her to sing at the Club on Sun- 
day. It's my turn to manage the music for that day, you 
know. Trent is going to sing too.” 

Ah,” said Mr. Brooke. Then, after a pause r I will 
ask her. But I don’t think slie will be able to sing on Sun- 
day. It strikes me she has an engagement.^’ 

He could not say to Ethel’s brother what was in his mind, 
and yet he was troubled by the intensity of his conviction 
that she was throwing herself away upon a cad.” He 
must take some other method in the future of giving Maurice 
a hint about young Trent. 

Maurice thought, not untruly, that there was something 
odd in his tone. 

Isn’t she well ? ” he asked, with his usual straightfor- 
wardness. ‘‘ I hope there is nothing wrong.” 

‘‘ I did not say there was anything wrong, did I ? ” 
demanded Caspar. Then, squaring his shoulders, and 
sitting well back in his chair, with his hands plunged into 
the pockets of his old study coat, and his eyes fixed on his 
visitor’s face, he thus acquitted himself — ‘^Maurice, my 
young friend, I am and have been a most confounded ass.” 

‘Oh?” said Maurice, interrogatively. 

“ I think it would relieve me — if I weren’t out of practice 
— to swear. But I’ve preached against ‘ langwidge ’ so 
long at the club that I don’t think I could get up the neces- 
sary stock of expletives.” 

“ I’ll supply you. I shouldn’t have thought that there 
was a lack of them down in your printing offices about one 
or two o’clock every morning, from what I’ve heard. What 
is it, if I may ask? Anything wrong with the Football 
Club?” 

Football Club I My dear fellow, I have a private life, 
unfortunately, as contradistinguished from your everlasting 
clubs and printing offices.” 

“ It is something about Miss Brooke, is it ? ” said 
Maurice, with greater interest. “ I was afraid there was 
something ” 

“Why?” 

“ Oh — well, you must excuse me for mentioning it — ^but 
wasn’t she — wasn’t she crying as she went out of the room ? 


172 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER, 


And sne has not been looking well for the last month 
or so.’’ 

I suppose you mean that she is not particularly happy 
here, with her father ? ” 

Maurice elevated his eyebrows. “ Brooke, old man, what 
have you got into your head? ” he asked, kindly. “ You 
look put out a good bit. Does she say she wants to leave 
you ? ” 

“Oh, no, no, ’tisn’t that. T daresay she does, though. 
You know the whole story — it is no good disguising the 
details from you. There’s been a wretched little mistake — 
all my fault, no doubt, but not intentionally so : the girl 
came here with the idea that she might not write to her 
mother — some nonsense about ‘ no communication ’ be- 
tween them stood in the way ; and it seems she has been 
pining to do so ever since she came.” 

“ And she never asked you ? never complained, or said 
anything ? ” 

“She broke down over it to-day. I'm ashamed to look 
her in the face,” said Brooke, vehemently. “ I’m ashamed 
to think of what they — their opinion of me is. A domin- 
eering, flinty-hearted, unnatural parent, eh, Maurice ? Ogre 
and tyrant and all the rest of it. As if I ever meant to put 
a stop to her writing to her mother ! I never heard of such 
an unjustifiable proceeding ! I never thought of such an 
absurd idea ! ” 

“ Then weren’t you very much to blame to allow the 
mistake to arise?” asked Maurice, bluntly. 

“Of course I was. That’s the abominable and con- 
founded part of it. Some hasty words of mine were mis- 
interpreted, of course. I told you I had been an ass.” 

“ Well, I hope it is set straight now ? ” 

“As far as I can set it straight. Probably nothing will 
undo the effect. She’ll think that I was cruel in the first 
instance if not in the last.” 

He sat staring at his boots, with a very discontented 
expression of countenance. But he did not get much 
sympathy from Mr. Kenyon. 

“ Well,” he said, “ I suppose you’ve yourself to blame. 
I’ve no doubt you have been very hasty, lots of times. It’s 
my own idea that if you went into detail over a good many 
actions of your past life ” — this was very significantly said 
— “ you would find that you had been mistaken pretty 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. I73 

often. We all do. And there^s one mistake that I think 
I can point out to yoii.^’ 

Caspar looked at him hard for a moment from under 
his bushy eyebrows. 

“ One subject, Kenyon,^’ he said, seriously, I shall ask 
you to respect.’^ 

All right,^^ said Maurice. “ I am only speaking of 
your daughter. You must allow me to say that I think 
you have misjudged her, ever since she has been in your 
house for the last three months. I did just the same, at 
first. You see, she came here, as far as I can make out, 
puzzled, ignorant of the world, deprived of her mother’s 
help and care, thrown on the tender mercies of a father 
whom she did not know ” 

“ And whom she took to be an ogre,'’ said Brooke, with 
a bitter, little laugh. 

Brought into a world that she knew nothing about, and 
amongst a set of people who could not understand why 
she looked sad and lonely, poor child ! ” 

“ I say, Maurice, you are speaking of my daughter, 
remember.” 

“ Don’t be touchy, old man. I speak and I think of 
her with every respect. We have all misjudged and mis- 
understood her : she is a young girl, little more than a 
child, and a child astray, pining uncomplainingly for her 
mother, doing her best to understand the new world she 
was thrown into, devouring your writings and trying as 
hard as she could to assimilate every good and noble idea 
that she came across — I say that she’s a saint and a 
heroine,” said Maurice, with sudden passion and enthusi- 
asm, ‘‘ and we’ve forgotten that not a girl in a thousand 
could have come through a trying ordeal so well ! ” 

She hasn’t come out of her ordeal at all, Maurice : the 
ordeal of living in the house of a brutal father, who, in her 
view, probably broke her mother’s heart : all that has to be 
proceeded with for nine months longer ! ” 

It need not be an ordeal if she knows that you love her : 
if she writes to her mother and gets the sympathy and aid 
she needs. Upon my soul, Brooke, it seems to me that you 
are hard upon your daughter ! ” 

Do you think I need to be taught my duty by you, 
young man ? ” said Caspar. He spoke with a smile, but 
his tone was undoubtedly sharp. His disciple was not so 
submissive as he had hitherto appeared to be. 


174 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


‘‘ Yes, I do,^’ said Maurice, undismayed. Because I 
appreciate her and understand her, which you don't. 1 was 
dense at first as you are, but 1 have learnt better now — 
through loving her.” 

“ Through what, man ? ” 

“ Through loving her. It’s the truth, Brooke, as I stand 
here. I’ve known it for some little time. It is only because 
it may seem too sudden to her and to you that I haven’t 
spoken before, and I did not mean to do so when I came 
here this afternoon. But the fact remains, I love Lesley, 
and I want her to be my wife.” 

Heavens and earth ! ” said Caspar. Is the man gone 
mad I ” 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


175 


CHAPTER XX. 

Lesley’s letter. 

‘‘ Kot a bit of it,” said Maurice sturdily. I speak the 
words of truth and soberness. I’ve thought about it for 
some time.” 

A week ? ” 

I’m in earnest, Brooke. Do you consent ? ” 

My good man,” said Caspar, slowly, you forget that 
I am probably the last person in the world whose consent 
is of any value.” 

Pooh ! ” 

You may say ‘ pooh ’ as much as you like, but the fact 
remains. When Lesley leaves me, say next August or 
September, she goes to her mother and her grandfather, 
who’s an earl, morels the pity. They have the guardian- 
ship, you understand.” 

But you have it legally still.” 

Hum — no ; we had a formal separation. I named the 
terms, certainly : I was angry at the time, and was in- 
clined to say that if I might not bring up the child in my 
own way, neither should its mother. That was why we 
compromised by sending her to school — but it was to be 
a school of Lady Alice’s choice. The year with me after- 
wards was a suggestion of mine, of course. But I can’t 
alter what was agreed on then.” 

“ Naturally. But ” 

And as to money affairs,” said Caspar, ruthlessly cut- 
ting him short, I have been put all along into the most 
painful and ridiculous position that a man can well be in. 
I offered to settle a certain income on my wife and daugh- 
ter: Lady Alice and her father refused to accept any 
money from me. I have paid various sums into his bank 
for Lesley, but I have reason to believe that they have 
never touched a farthing of it. You see they’ve put me at 
a disadvantage all round. And what is to be done when 
she marries, unless she marries with their consent, I don’t 


176 


BROOKE DAUGHTER. 


quite see. She won't like to offend them or seem ungrate- 
ful when they have done so much for her ; and I — accord- 
ing to the account that they will give her — I have done 
nothing. So I don't suppose I shall be consulted about 
her marriage.” 

You are her father : you must be consulted.” 

“ Well, as a matter of form ! But I expect that she is 
destined to marry a duke, my dear fellow ; and I call it 
sheer folly on your part to have fallen in love with her.'' 

But you don't object, Brooke ? '' 

“ I only hope that the destined duke will be half as 
decent a chap as you are. But I can't encourage you — 
Lesley will have to look out for squalls if she engages her- 
self to you.” 

“ May I not speak to her then ? ” inquired Maurice rue- 
fully. ‘‘ Not at once, perhaps, you know ; but if I think 
that I have a chance ? 

‘‘ Say what you like,'^ said Brooke, with a genial smile ; 
for his ill-humor had vanished in spite of his apparent 
opposition to Maurice's suit. I should like nothing 
better — for my own part; but we are both bound to con- 
sider Lesley. You know you are a shocking bad match 
for her. Oh, I know you are the descendant of kings and 
all that sort of bosh, but as a matter of fact you are only a 
young medico, a general practitioner, and his lordshij) is 
bound to think that I am making something for myself out 
of the marriage.” 

You don't think he'll consent ? '' 

Never, my dear boy. One mesalliance was enough for 
him. He has got rid of me, and regained his daughter; 
but no doubt he intends to repair her mistake by a grand 
match for Lesley.” 

But perhaps she would not marry the man he chose 
for her ? ” 

Brooke laughed. ‘‘ Can't answer for Lesley, I don't 
know her well enough,” he said. ‘‘ Have you any notion, 
now, that she cares for you ? ” 

Maurice shook his head dismally. “ Not in the least. I 
scarcely think she even likes me. But I mean to try my 
chance some day.” 

“ I wish you joy,” said Lesley's father, with a slight 
enigmatical smile. ‘‘ Especially with the Earl of Courtle- 
roy. Hallo ! there's the dinner bell. We have wasted 
all our time talking up here : you'll stay and dine ? ” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


^11 


No, thanks — wish I could, but I must dine with Ethel, 
and go out directly afterwards.” 

‘‘ When is the marriage to take place ? said Caspar, 
directing a keen glance to the face of his friend. 

‘‘ Ethel’s ? There is nothing settled.” 

I say, Maurice, I don’t like Trent. He’s a slippery 
customer. I would look after him a bit if I were you, and 
put Ethel on her guard. I think I am bound to say as 
much as that.” 

‘‘ Do you think any harm of him ? ” 

“ I think harm of him — unjustly, perhaps. I am not so 
sure that I know of any. I only want you to keep your 
eyes open. Good-bye, old man.” 

And Caspar Brooke gave his friend’s hand such a pres- 
sure that Maurice went away satisfied that Lesley’s father, 
at any rate, and in spite of protest, was upon his side. 

Miss Brooke came into dinner at the last moment, so Mr. 
Brooke and his daughter were saved the embarrassment of 
dining alone — for it could not be denied that it would 
have been embarrassing after the recent scene, if there had 
been no third person present to whom they could address 
remarks. Miss Brooke’s mind was full of the meeting 
which she had attended, and she gave them a glowing 
account of it. Lesley spoke very little, but her face was 
happier than it had been for a long time, although her eyes 
were red. Mr. Brooke looked at her a good deal in a fur- 
tive kind of way, and with more interest than usual. She 
was certainly a good-looking girl. But that was not all. 
Caspar Brooke had passed the period of caring for good 
looks and nothing else. Lesley had spirit, intelligence, 
honesty, endurance, as well as beauty. Well, she might 
make a good wife for Maurice after all. For although he 
had declared that Kenyon was ‘‘a shocking bad match,” 
he was inclined to think in his own heart that Kenyon was 
too good for his daughter Lesley. 

However, he had a soft corner in his big heart for the 
little girl who used to sit on his knee and refuse to go to 
sleep without his good-night kiss, and he was pleased when 
she came up to him before he went out that evening, and 
timidly put her face up to be kissed, as if she had still been 
the child he loved. She had never done that before ; and 
he took it more as a sign of gratitude for permission to 
write to Lady Alice than actual affection for himself. 

12 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


178 


“ Are you writing your letter ? ” he said, touching her 
cheek half playfully, half caressingly. 

“ Yes,’^ said Lesley, looking down. ‘‘ Is there — have 
you — no message ? 

‘‘ Why should I have a message ? You:* mother and I 
correspond through our lawyer, my dear. But — well, yes, 
if you like to say that I am sorry for this mistake of the last 
few months, you may do so. I have no doubt that she 
has missed your letters, and I should like her to under- 
stand that the correspondence was not discontinued at my 
desire. I regret the mistake.” 

He said it formally and gravely, and in a particularly 
icy tone of voice ; but Lesley was for the moment satisfied. 
She went back to lier writing-desk and took up her pen. 
She had already written a couple of sheets, but in them 
her father’s name had scarcely been mentioned. Now, 
however, she wrote : — 

“ You may be wondering, dearest mamma, why I am 
writing to you in this way, because you told me that I 
must not write, and I have put off my explanation until 
almost the end. I could not bear to be without your 
letters any longer, and to-day I said so to my father. I 
could not help telling him, because I was so miserable. 
And he wishes me to tell you that it was all a mistake, and 
he is very sorry ; he never meant to put a stop to our 
writing to each other, and he is very, very sorry that we 
thought so.” Lesley’s version was not so dignified as her 
father had intended it to be. “ He was terribly distressed 
when he found out that I was not writing to you ; and 
called himself all sorts of names — a tyrant and an ogre, 
and asked what we must have thought of him ! He was 
really very much grieved about it, and never meant us to 
leave off writing. So now I shall write as often as I 
please, and you, dearest mamma, will write to me too. 

‘‘There is one thing I must say, darling mother, and you 
will not be angry with me for saying it, will you ? I think 
father must be different now from what he was in the old 
days; or else — perhaps there may have been a mistake 
about him, such as there has been about the letters I For 
he is so clever and gentle and kind — a little sarcastic now 
and then, but always good ! The poor people at the Club 
(which I told you about in the last sheet) just adore him; 
and they say that he has saved many of them from worse 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


*79 


than death. And you never told me about his Dook, dear 
mamma — ‘The Unexplored.^ It is such a beautiful book 
— surely you think so, although you think ill of the writer? 
Of course you have read it? I have read it four times, I 
think ; and I want to ask him about some parts of it, but 
I have never dared — I don^t think he even knows that I 
have read it. It has gone through more than twelve 
editions, and has been translated into French and German, 
so you must have seen it. And Mr. Kenyon says it sells 
by thousands in America. 

“It was Mr. Kenyon who first told me about it, and 
made me understand how blind I was at first to my father's 
really great qualities. I know he is not like grandpapa — 
he does sometimes seem a little rough when compared to 
grandpapa ; but then you always said I must not expect 
every man I met in the world to have grandpapa’s courtly 
manners. And it must have been very lonely for you if he 
went out at such funny hours as he does now, and did not 
breakfast or lunch with you ! But I am told that all ‘ jour- 
nalists keep these hours,’ and that it is very provincial of 
me not to know it ! It is a very different house, and dif- 
ferent life, from any that I ever saw before ; but I am get- 
ting accustomed to it now, especially since Mr. Kenyon 
has talked to me. 

“ Dearest mother, don't think that I love you one whit 
the less because I am away from you, and am learning to 
love other people a little too. Nobody could be to me 
what you are, my own dear mother. — Your child, 

“ Lesley.'’ 

So Lesley’s girlish, emotional, indiscreet letter went 
upon its way to Lady Alice, who was just then in Eaton 
Square, and Lesley never dreamt of the tears that it brought 
to her mother's eyes. 

The letter was a shock to Lady Alice in more ways than 
one. First, it showed her that on one point at least she 
had been mistaken — and it was a point that had long been 
a very sore one to her. Caspar had not meant the corres- 
pondence between mother and daughter to cease — so he 
said now ; but she was certain that he had spoken very 
harshly about it when the arrangement was first made. 
He had even affected to doubt whether she had heart 
enough to care whether she heard from her child or not. 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


180 

Well, possibly he had altered his views since those days. 
Lesley said that he ynust be different ! Poor Lesley ! 
thought Lady Alice, how very little she knew ! She seemed 
to have been as much fascinated by her father as Lady 
Alice had been, in days long past, by Caspar Brooke as a 
lover ; but Lady Alice reflected that she had never 
thought of Caspar as good or gentle or “ great in any 
way. She thought of him chiefly in his relation to herself, 
and in that relation he had not been satisfactory. Yes, 
she remembered well enough the sarcastic remarks, the 
odd hours, the discomfort of her solitary meals. Lesley 
could see all these points, and yet discover good in the 
man, and not be disgusted ? Lady Alice could not under- 
stand her daughter’s impartiality. 

Of course — it had occurred to her once or twice — that, 
being human, she might have been mistaken. She could 
have got over the dreariness and discomfort of Caspar’s 
home, if Caspar had but loved her. Suppose — it was just 
a remote possibility — Caspar had loved her all the time ! 

The child has infected me with her romantic ideas,” 
said Lady Alice, at last, with a faint, sad smile. Let me 
see — what does she say about her friends ? The Kenyons 
— Ethel Kenyon — Mr. Trent — the clergyman of the parish 
— Mr. Kenyon — Mr. Kenyon I wonder who tlie Mr. 
Kenyon is of whom she speaks so highly. Surely not a 
clergyman too ? Poor Caspar disliked clergymen so much. 
I wonder if Mrs. Romaine is still living in the neighborhood. 
But no, I remember : she went out to Calcutta and then to 
some German baths with her husband. What became of 
her, I wonder ! If she were friendly with Caspar still, 
Leslie would be sure to mention her to me ! ” 

And she read the letter through once more. But Lesley 
had not said a word about Mrs. Romaine : her heart had 
been too hot and angry with the remembrance of what Mrs. 
Romaine’s brother had done, to lead her to say one word 
about the family. 

Lady Alice lingered curiously over Lesley’s remarks on 

The Unexplored.” She had not read the book herself. 
She had seen it and heard of it very often — so often that she 
thought she knew all that it contained. But for Lesley’s 
sake she resolved to read it now. Perhaps it held strange, 
dangerous doctrines, against which her daughter ought to 
be cautioned. Of course the house did not contain a copy. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. i8i 

But early in the day Lady Alice went to the nearest book- 
seller’s and bought a copy. The obliging book-seller, who 
did not know her, remarked that Brooke’s * Unexplored ’ ” 
was always popular, and asked her whether she would like 
an unbound copy, or one bound in neat great cloth. Lady 
Alice took the latter : she had a distaste for paper-covered 
books. 

She read “ The Unexplored ” in her own room that 
morning, but of course she was not struck by it exactly as 
Lesley had been. The facts which had horrified Lesley 
were no novelties to her. She was, in truth, slightly angry 
that her innocent Lesley should have so much of the great 
city’s misery and shame laid bare to her. She acknow- 
ledged the truth of the portraiture, the beauty of the descrip- 
tions, the eloquence of the author’s appeals to the higher 
classes ; but she acknowledged it with resentment. Why 
had Caspar written a book of this sort? a book that taunt- 
ed the higher classes with their birth, and reproached the 
wealthy with their riches ? It was rather a disgrace than 
otherwise, in Lady Alice’s aristocratic eyes, to be connect- 
ed in any way with the writer of The Unexplored.” 

Nevertheless, the book stirred in her the desire to vin- 
dicate the worth of her order and of her sex ; and the next 
day, after having despatched a long and tender letter to 
Lesley (with a formal message of thanks to her husband), 
she went out to call on a lady, who was noted in her circle 
as a great philanthropist, and mentioned to her in a timid 
way that she wished she could be of any use amongst the 
poor, but she really did not see what she could do. 

Her friend, Mrs. Bexley, was nothing if not practical. 

But, my dearest Lady Alice, you can be of every use 
in the world,” she said. ‘‘ I am going to drive to the East 
End to-morrow morning, to distribute presents at the 
London Hospital-^-it is getting so close to Christmas, you 
know, that we really must not put it off any longer. I 
generally go once a week to vist the children and some of 
the other patients. Won’t you come with me? ” 

‘‘ I am afraid I should be of very little use,” said Lady 
Alice. 

‘‘ But we shall not want you to do anything — only to 
say a kind word to the patients now and then, and give 
them things.” 

I think I could do that/’ said Lesley’s mother^ softly. 


BKOOKE^S DA UGIiTER. 


182 

She went back to her father’s house quite cheered by 
the unexpected prospect of something to do — something 
which should take her out of the routine of ordinary work 
— something which should bring her closer (though she 
did not say it to herself) to the aims and objects of Lesley 
and Caspar Brooke. % 

The visit was a great success. Lady Alice, with her tall, 
graceful figure, her winning face, her becoming dress, was 
a pleasant sight for the weary eyes of the women and 
children in the accident wards. Mrs. Bexley was wise 
enough not to take her near any very painful sights. Lady 
Alice talked to some of the little children and gave them 
toys : she made friends, rather shyly, with some of the 
women, and promised to come and s^e them again. Mrs. 
Bexley was well known in the hospital, and was allowed to 
stay an unusually long time. So it happened that one of 
the doctors, coming rather hurriedly into one of the wards, 
paused at the sight of a lady bending over one of the 
children’s beds, and looked so surprised that one of .the 
nurses hastened to explain that the stranger came with old 
Mrs. Bexley and was going away again directly. 

The doctor nodded, and went straight iij) to the child’s 
bed. Lady Alice, raising herself after careful arrangement 
of some wooden animals on the sick child’s table, came 
face to face with a very handsome man of about thirty, 
who seemed to be regarding her with especial interest. He 
moved away with a slight bow when she looked back at him, 
but he did not go far. He paused to chat with another 
little patient, and Lady Alice noticed that all the small 
faces brightened at the sight of him, and that two or three 
(Children called him imperiously to their bedsides. Some- 
thing about him vaguely interested her — perhaps it was 
only his pleasant look, perha])s the affection with which he 
was regarded, perhaps the expression which his face had 
worn when he looked at her. She remembered him so 
well that she was able when she paid a second visit to the 
hospital to describe him to one of the Sisters, and ask 
his name. 

Kenyon,” she repeated, when it was told to her. I 
suppose it is not an uncommon name ? ” 

Lesley had spoken of a Mr. Kenyon. It was not this 
Mr. Kenyon, of course ! 

But it was “ this Mr. Kenyon ; ” and thus Maurice met 
the mother of the girl he loved in the ward pf a London 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


183 

hospital, whither Lady Alice had been urged by that im- 
jnilse towards “The Unexplored,” of which her husband 
was the author. And in another ward of the same hospital 
lay a patient whose destiny was to influence the fates of 
both — an insensible man, whose name was unknown to the 
nurses, but whom Oliver would have recognized as his 
brother. Francis Trent, 


i84 


BROOKE^ S BA EG// TER. 


CHAPTER XXL 

ETHEL REMONSTRATES, 

The house in which the Kenyons resided was built on 
the same pattern as Mr. Brooke’s, but it was in some re- 
spects very unlike Mr. Brooke’s place of residence. Mau- 
rice’s consulting-room and dining-room corresponded, 
perliaps, to Mr. Brooke’s dining-room and study : it was 
upstairs where the difference showed itself. Ethel’s 
drawing-room was like herself — a little whimsical, a little 
bizarre ; ])retty, withal, and original, and somewhat unlike 
anything one had ever seen before. She was fond of 
novelties, and introduced the latest fashions in draperies or 
china or screens as soon as she could get hold of them ; and 
the result was occasionally incongruous, though always 
bright and cheerful-looking. 

It was the incongruity of the ornaments and arrangements 
which chiefly struck the mind of Oliver Trent as he entered 
Ethel’s drawing-room one afternoon, and stumbled over a 
footstool placed where no footstool ought to be. 

‘‘ I wish,” he began, somewhat irritably, as he touched 
Ethel’s forehead with his lips, ‘‘ that you would not make 
your room quite so much like a fancy fair, Ethel.” 

Ethel raised her eyebrows. “ Why, Oliver, only the 
other day you said how pretty it was ! ” 

‘‘ Pretty I I hate the word. As ‘ if prettiness ’ could be 
taken as a test of what was best in art.” 

My room isn’t ‘ art,’ pouted Ethel ; ‘‘ it’s 
The sentence might be ungrammatical, but it was strictly 
true. The room represented Ethel’s character exactly. It 
was odd, quaint, striking, and attractive. But Oliver was 
not in the mood to see its attractiveness. 

“ It is certainly a medley,” he replied, with some incisive- 
ness. ‘‘ How many styles do you think are rei)resented 
in the place? Japanese, Egyptian, Renaissance, Louis 

Qiiinze, Queen Anne, Early Georgian ” 

‘‘ Oh, no ! please don’t go on ! ” cried Ethel, with mock 
earnestness. Net Early Georgian, please! Anything 
but that ! ” 


EROOKE^S DAUGHTER. 


185 

‘‘ It is all incongruous and out of taste/^ said Oliver, in 
an ill-tempered tone, and then he threw himself into a deep, 
comfortable lounging chair, and closed his eyes as if the 
sight of the room were too much for his nerves. 

Ethel remained standing : her •pretty viigfionne figure 
was motionless ; her bright face was thoughtful and over- 
cast. 

Do you mean,’^ she said, quietly, that I am incon- 
gruous and out of taste loo ! ” 

There was a new note in her voice. Usually it was light 
and bird-like : now there was something a little more 
weighty, a little more serious, than had been heard in it 
before. Oliver noted tlie change, and moved his head 
restlessly ; he did not want to quarrel with Ethel, but he 
was ill at ease in her presence, and therefore apt to be 
exceedingly irritable with her. 

You wrest my words, of course,’^ he answered. You 
always do. There’s no arguing with — with — a woman.” 

^‘With i 7 ie you were about to say. Don’t spare me. 
What other accusations have you to bring ! ” 

“ Accusations ! Nonsense ! ” 

‘‘It is not nonsense, Oliver.” Her voice trembled. “I 
have felt for some time that all was not right between us. 
I can’t shut my eyes. I must believe what I see, and what 
I feel. We must understand one another.” 

Oliver’s eyes were wide open now. He began to see 
that he had gone a little too far. It would not do to snub 
Ethel too much — at least before the marriage. Afterwards 
— he said to himself — he should treat her as he felt inclined. 
But now 

“You are mistaken, Ethel,” he said, in a tone of half 
appeased vexation which he thought very effective. “ What 
on earth should there be wrong between us ! Open your 
eyes and your ears as much as you like, my dear child, 
but don’t be misled by what you feel.’^ The wind is in the 
East, remember. You feel a chill, most probably, and 
you put your 7nalaise down to me.” 

His tone grew more affectionate as he spoke. He want- 
ed her to believe that he had been suffering from a mere 
passing cloud of ill-temper, and that he was already 
ashamed of it. 

I feel the effects of the weather myself,” he said. “ I 
have been horribly depressed all day, and I have a head- 


i86 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


ache. Perhaps that is why the brightness of your room 
seemed to hurt my eyes. You know that I always like it 
when I am well.^^ 

He looked at her keenly, hoping that this reference to 
possible ill-liealth might bring the girl to his feet, as it had 
often done before in the case of other women ; but it did 
not seem to produce the least effect. She stood silent, 
immobile, with her eyes still fixed upon the floor. Silence 
and stillness were so unusual in one of Ethel’s vivacious 
temperament, that Oliver began to feel alarmed. 

‘‘ Ethel,” he said, advancing to her, and laying his hand 
upon hers, “ what is wrong? What have I done ? ” 

She shook her head hastily, but made no other reply. 

‘‘ Look at me,” he said, softly. 

And then she lifted her eyes. But they wore a ques- 
tioning and not a trustful look. 

‘‘ Ethel, dearest, what have I done to offend you ? It 
cannot be my silly comment on your room that makes you 
look so grave? Believe me, dear, it came only from my 
headache and my bad temper. I am deeply sorry to have 
hurt you. Only speak — scold me if you like — but do not 
keep me in this suspense.” 

He was skilled in the art of pleading. His pale face, 
usually so expressionless, took on the look of almost 
passionate entreaty. 

Ethel was an actress by profession — perhaps a little by 
nature also — but she was too essentially simple-hearted to 
suspect her friends of acting ])arts in private life, and in- 
deed trusted them rather more implicitly than most people 
trust their friends. It had been a grief to her to doubt 
Oliver’s faith for a moment, and her eyes filled with 
tears, while they flashed also with indignation, as she replied, 

“ You must know what I mean. I have felt it for a very 
long time. You do not care for me as you used to do.” 

Upon my soul, I do ! ” cried Oliver, very sincerely. 

‘‘ Then you never cared for me very much.” 

This was getting serious. Oliver had no mind to break 
off his engagement. He reserv’ed the right to snub Ethel 
without giving offence. If this was an impracticable course 
to pursue, it was evident that he must abandon it and eat 
humble pie. Anything rather than part from her just now. 
He had lost the woman he loved : it would not do to lose 
also his only chance of winning a competency for himself 
and immunity from fear of want in the future. 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER, 


187 


Ethel/' he said, softly, you grieve me very much. I 
acknowledge my faults of temper — I did not think you 
mistook then for a want of love." 

I do not think I do. It is something more real, more 
tangible than that." 

‘‘ What is it, dear ? " 

She paused, tlien looked keenly into his face. ‘‘ It 
seems to me, Oliver, that Lesley Brooke has won your heart 
away from me." 

He threw back his head and laughed — a singularly 
jarring and unpleasant laugh, as it seemed to her. “ What 
will you imagine next ? " he said. 

“ Imagine ? Have I imagined it ? Isn't it true that 
you have been at her house almost every day for the last 
three or four weeks ? Do you come here as often .? Is it 
not Lesley that attracts you ? — not me ! " 

“ Oh, so you are jealous ! " 

Yes, I suppose I am. It is only natural, I think." 

They faced each other for a moment, defiantly, almost 
fiercely. There was a proud light in Ethel's eyes, a com- 
pression of the lips which told that she was not to be 
trifled with. Oliver stood pale, with frowning brows, and 
eyes that seemed to question both the reality of her feeling 
and the answer that he should make to her demand. It 
was by a great effort of self-control that at last he answered 
her with calmness — 

I assure you, Ethel, you are utterly mistaken. What 
have I in common with a girl like Miss Brooke — one of 
the most curiously ignorant and wrong-headed persons 
I ever came across ? Can you think for a moment that 
I should compare her with you ? — you^ beautiful and gifted 
and cultured above most women ? " 

‘‘ That is nothing to the point," said Ethel, quickly. 

Men don't love women because of their gifts and their 
culture." 

No," he rejoined, but because of some subtle likeness 
or attractiveness which draws one to the other. I find 
it in you, without knowing why. You — I hoped — found 
it " 

His voice became troubled ; he dropped his eyes. Ethel 
trembled — she loved him, poor girl, and she thought that 
he suffered as she had suffered, and she was sorry for him. 
But her outraged pride would not let her make any 
advance as yet. 


i88 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


‘‘ I may be a fatuous fool,” said Oliver, after an agitated 
pause, but I thought you loved me.” 

‘‘ I do love you,” cried Ethel, passionately. 

‘‘And yet you suspect me of being false to you.” 

“ Not suspect — not suspect she said, incoherently, 
and then was suddenly folded in Oliver's arms, and felt 
that the time for reproach or inquiry had gone by. 

She was not sorry that matters had ended in this way, 
although she felt it to be illogical. With his kisses upon 
her mouth, with the pressure of his arm enfolding her, it was 
almost impossible for her to maintain, in his presence, a 
doubt of him. It was when he had gone that all the facts 
which he had ignored came back to her with torturing in- 
sistence, and that she blamed herself for not having refused 
to be reconciled to him until she had ascertained the truth 
or untruth of a report that had reached her ears. 

With a truer lover she might have gone unsatisfied to 
her dying day. A faithful-hearted man might never have 
perceived where she was hurt ; he would not have been 
astute enough to discover that he might heal the wound by 
a few timely words of explanation, Oliver, keenly alive 
to his own interests, reopened the subject a few days later 
of his own accord. 

They had completely made up their quarrel — to all out- 
ward appearance, at any rate — and were sitting together 
one afternoon in Ethel’s obnoxious drawing-room. They 
had been laughing together at some funny story of Ethel’s 
associates at the theatre, and to the laughter had succeed- 
ed a silence, during which Oliver possessed himself of the 
girl’s hand and carried it gently to his lips. 

“ Ethel,” he said, softly, “ wha.t made you so angry with 
me the other day ? ” 

“Your bad behavior, I suppose!” she said, trying to 
treat the matter in her usual lively fashion. 

“ But what was my bad behavior? Did it consist in 
going so often to the Brookes’ ? ” 

“ Oh, what does it matter? ” exclaimed P^thel, petulant- 
ly. “ Didn’t we agree to forgive and forget ? If we didn’t, 
we ought to have done. I don’t want to look back.” 

“ But you are doing an injustice to me. Ethel, I dare 
not say to you that I insisf on knowing wliat it was. But 
I very strongly wis/i that you would tell me — so that I 
might at least try to set your mind at rest,” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


189 


“ Well/' said Ethel, quickly, if you must know — it was 
only a bit of gossip— servants gossip. I know all that can 
be said respecting the foolishness of listening to gossip 
from such a source — but I can't help it. One of the maids 
at Mr. Brooke's ” 

‘‘ Sarah ?" asked Oliver, with interest. ‘‘Sarah never 
liked me." 

“ No, it was not Sarah^ — it was that maid of Lesley’s — 
Kingston her name is, 1 believe — who said to one of our 
servants one day that you went there a great deal oftener 
than she would like, it she were in my place. There ! I 
have made a full confession. It was a petty spiteful bit of 
gossip, of course, and 1 ought not to have listened to it — 
but then it seemed so natural — and I thought it might be 
true ! " 

“ What seemed natural ? " said Oliver, who, against his 
will, was looking very black. 

“ Why, that you should like Lesley ; she is the sweetest 
girl I ever came across." 

In his heart Oliver echoed that opinion, but he fell 
morally bound to deny it. 

“ You say so only because you have never seen yourself I 
My darling, how could you accuse me merely on servants' 
evidence ! " 

“ Is there no truth in it, Oliver ? " 

“ None in the least." 

“ But you do go there very often ! " 

Then Oliver achieved a masterpiece of diplomacy. “ My 
dear Ethel," he said, “ I will go there no more until you go 
with me. I will not set foot in the house again." 

He knew very well that Mr. Brooke would not admit him. 
It was clever to make a virtue of necessity. 

“ No, no, please don't do that ! Go as often as you 
please." 

“ It was simply out of kindness to a lonely girl. I played 
her accompaniments for her sometimes, and listened to her 
singing. But as you dislike it, Ethel, I promise you that I 
will go there no more." 

“ Oh, Oliver, forgive me ! I don't doubt you a bit. Do 
go to see Lesley as often as you can. I should like you to 
do it. Go for my sake." 

But Oliver was quite obdurate. No, he would not go to 
the Brookes' again, since Ethel had once objected to his 


190 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


going. And on this pinnacle of austere virtue he remained, 
thereby reducing Ethel to a state of self-abasement, which 
spoke well for his chances of mastery in the married life 
which loomed before him. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


191 


CHAPTER XXII. 

LADY ALICEAS PHILANTHROPY. 

Meanwhile, Lady Alice Brooke, in pursuit of her new 
fancy for philanthropy and the sick poor, had wandered 
somewhat aimlessly into other wards beside those set apart 
for women and children — at first the object of her search. 
She strayed — I use the word ‘‘ strayed designedly, for 
she certainly did not do it of set purpose — with one of the 
nurses into accident wards, into the men’s wards, where 
her flowers and fruits and gentle words made her welcome, 
and where the bearded masculine faces, worn sometimes by 
pain and privation of long standing, appealed to her sensi- 
bilities in a new and not altogether unpleasant way. 

For Lady Alice was a very feminine creature, and liked, 
as most women do like, to be admired and adored. She 
had confessed as much when she told the story of her life 
to her daughter Lesley. And she had something less than 
her woman’s due in this respect. Caspar Brooke had very 
honestly loved and admired her, but in a protective and 
slightly superior ” way. The earl, her father, belonged 
to that conservative portion of the aristocratic class which 
treats its womankind with distinguished civility and pro- 
foundest contempt. In her father’s home Lady Alice felt 
herself of no account. As years increased upon her, the 
charm of her graceful manner was marred by advancing 
self-distrust. In losing (as she, at least, thought) her 
physical attractions, she lost all that entitled her to consi- 
deration amongst the men add women with whom she lived. 
She had no fixed position, no private fortune, nothing that 
would avail her in the least when her father died ; and 
the gentle coldness of her manner did not encourage 
women to intimacy, or invite men to pay her attentions 
that she would scorn. In any other situation, her natural 
gifts and virtues would have fairer play. As a spinster, 
she would still have had lovers ; as a widow, suitors by the 
the dozen ; as a happily married woman she would have 


192 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER, 


been courted, complimented, flattered, by all the world. 
But, as a woman merely separated from a husband with 
whom she had in the first instance eloped, living on suffer- 
ance, as it were, in her father’s house, neither maid, wife, 
nor widow,” she was in a situation which became more 
irksome and more untenable every year. 

To a woman conscious of such a jar in her private life, 
it was really anew and delightful experience to find her- 
self in a place where she could be of some real use, where 
she was admired and respected and flattered by that un- 
conscious flattery given us sometimes by the preference of 
the sick and miserable. The men in one of the accident 
wards were greatly taken with Lady Alice. There was her 
title, to begin with ; there were her gracious accents, her 
graceful figure, her gentle, beautiful face. The men liked 
to see her come in, liked to hear her talk — although she 
was decidedly slow, and a little irresponsive in conver- 
sation. It soon leaked out, moreover, that material 
benefits followed in the wake of her visits. One man, 
who left the hospital, returned one day to inform his mates 
that ‘‘ the lady ” had found work for him on her father’s 
estate, and that he considered himself a made man for 
life.” The attentions of such men who were not too ill 
to be influenced by such matters were henceforth con- 
centrated upon Lady Alice ; and she, being after all a 
simple creature, believed their devotion to be genuine, 
and rejoiced in it. 

With one patient, however, she did not for some time 
establish any friendly relations. He had been run over, 
while drunk, the nurses told her, and very seriously hurt. 
He lay so long in a semi-comatose condition that fears 
were entertained for his reason, and when the mist gradu- 
ally cleared away from his brain, he was in too confused a 
state of mind for conversation to be possible. 

Lady Alice went to look at him from time to time, and 
spoke to the nurse about him ; but weeks elapsed before 
he seemed conscious of the presence of any visitor. The 
nursing sister told the visitor at last that the man had 
spoken and replied to certain questions : that he had 
seemed uncertain about his owir name, and could not 
give any coherent account of himself. Later on, it trans- 
pired that the man had allowed his name to be entered 
as John Smith.” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 193 

Not his own name, I’m certain,” the nurse said, deci- 
dedly. 

‘‘ Why not ? ” Lady Alice asked, with curiosity. 

It’s too common by half for his face and voice,’' the 
Sister answered, shrewdly. If you look at him or speak 
to him, you’ll find that that man’s a gentleman.” 

‘‘A gentleman — picked up drunk in the street ? ” 

A gentleman by birth or former position, I mean,” said 
the Sister, rather dryly. No doubt he has come down in 
the world ; but he has been, at any rate, what people call 
an educated man.” 

Lady Alice’s prejudices were stirred in favor of the 
broken-down drunkard by this characterization; and she 
made his acquaintance as soon as he was able to talk. Her 
impression coincided with that of the Sister. The man had 
once been a gentleman — a cultivated, well-bred man, from 
whom refinement had never quite departed. Over and 
above this fact there was something about him which utterly 
puzzled Lady Alice. His face recalled to her some one 
whom she had known, and she could not imagine who 
that some one might be. The features, the contour of 
the face, the expression, were strangely familiar to her. For, 
by the refining forces which sickness often applies, the 
man’s face had lost all trace of former coarseness or com- 
moness : it had become something like what it had been in 
the days of his first youth. And the likeness which puzzled 
Lady Alice was a very strong resemblance to the patient’s 
sister, Rosalind Romaine. 

Lady Alice was attracted by him, visited his bedside very 
often, and tried to win his confidence. But John Smith” 
had, at present, no confidence to give. Questions confused 
and bewildered him. His brain was in a very excitable 
condition, the doctor said, and he was not to be tormented 
with useless queries. By the time his other injuries had 
been cured, he might perhaps recover the full use of his 
mind, and could then give an account of himself if he liked. 
Till then he was to be let alone ; and so Lady Alice content- 
ed herself with bringing him such gifts as the authorities 
allowed, and with talking or reading to him a little from time 
to time in soothing and friendly tones. It was to be noted 
that before long his eyes followed her with interest as she 
crossed the ward ; that his brow cleared when she spoke to 
him, and that all her movements were watched by him with 

13 


194 


BROOKE DAUGHTER, 


great intentness. In spite of this she could not get him to 
reply with anything but curtness to her inquiries after his 
health and general welfare ; and it was quite a surprise to 
her when one day, on her visit to him, he accosted her of his 
own accord. 

Won’t you sit down ? ” he said suddenly. 

‘‘ Thank you. Yes, I should like to sit and read to you 

a little if you are able ” 

It isn’t for that,” he said, interrupting her unceremoni- 
ously; it’s because I have something special to say to you. 
If you’ll stoop down a moment I’ll say it — I don’t want 
any one else to hear.” 

In great surprise, Lady Alice bowed her head. 

I want to tell you,” he said gruffly, ‘‘ that you’re 
wasting your time and your money. These men in the 
ward are not really grateful to you one bit. They specu- 
late before you come as to how much you are likely to 
give them, and when you are gone they compare notes 
and grumble if you have not given them enough.” 

‘‘I do not wish to hear this,” said Lady Alice, with 
dignity. 

‘‘ I know you do not ; but I think it is only right to tell 
you. Try them : give them nothing for a visit or two, 
and see whether they won’t sulk and look gloomy, although 

you may talk to them as kindly as ever ” 

And if they did,” said Lady Alice, with a sudden flash 
of energy and insight which amazed herself, who could 
blame them, considering the pain they have suffered, and 
the brutal lives they lead ? Why should they listen to my 
poor words, if I go to them without a gift in my hand ? ” 

She spoke as she would have spoken to an equal — an 
unconscious tribute to the refinement which stamped this 
man as of a higher calibre than his fellows. 

It is a convenient doctrine for them,” said John Smith, 
and buried his head in the bedclothes as if he wanted to 
hear nothing more. 

For Lady Alice’s next two visits he would not look up, 
or respond when she came near him, which she never 
failed to do; but on the third occasion he lifted his head. 

Well, madam,” he said, “ you have after all been trying 
my plan, I hear. Do you find that it works well? ” 

Lady Alice hesitated. The averted faces and puzzled, 
downgast^sometimes sullen — looks of the sick men and 


JSROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


195 


boys to whom she had of late given nothing but kind 
words, had grieved her sorely. 

I suppose it proves the truth, in part, of what you say,’^ 
she answered gently, but on the other hand I find that 
my gifts have been judged excessive and unwise. It 
seems that I have a great deal to learn in the art of giving : 
it does not come by nature, as some suppose. I have 
consulted the doctors and nurses — and I have to thank 
you for giving me a warning.” 

A look of surprise passed across the man’s face. 

You’re better than some of them,” he said, curtly. I 
thought you'd never look at me again. I don’t know why 
I should have interfered. But I did not like to see you 
cheated and laughed at.” 

Lady Alice colored, but she felt no resentment against 
the man, although he had shown her that she had made 
herself ridiculous when she was bent on playing Lady 
Bountiful, and posing as an angel of light. She said after 
a moment’s pause — 

I believe you meant kindly. Is there nothing that I 
can do for you ? ” 

He shook his head. I don’t think so — I can’t remem- 
ber very well. The doctors say I shall remember by and 
by. Then I shall know.” 

And if I can, you will let me help you ? ” 

I suppose I ought to be only too glad,” said the patient, 
with a sort of sullenness, which Lady Alice felt that she 
could but dimly understand. I suppose I’m the sort of 
man to be helped ; and yet I can’t help fancying there’s a 
— Past — a Past behind me — a life in which I once was 
proud of my independence. But it strikes me that this was 
very long ago.” 

He drew the bedclothes over his head again, and made no 
further reply. Lady Alice came to see him after this con- 
versation as often as the rules of the hospital would allow 
her ; and, although she seemed to get little response from 
him, the fact really remained that she was establishing an 
ascendancy over the man such as no nurse or doctor in 
the place had yet maintained. Others noticed it beside 
herself ; but she, disheartened a little by her disappoint- 
ment in some of the other patients, did not recognize the 
reality of his attachment to her. And an event occurred 
about the time which put John Smith and hospital matters 
out of her head for a considerable time to come. 


196 


BROOKE DAUGHTER, 


Old Lord Courtleroy died suddenly. He was an old 
man, but so hale and hearty that his death had not been 
expected in the least ; but he was found dead in his bed 
one morning, and the doctors pronounced that his com- 
plaint had been heart disease. The heir to the title and 
estate was a distant cousin whom Lady Alice and her father 
had never liked ; and when he entered upon his posses- 
sions, Lady Alice knew that the time had come for her to 
seek a home elsewhere. She had sufficient to live upon ; 
indeed, for a single woman, she was almost rich ; but the 
loneliness of her position once more forced itself upon her, 
especially as Lesley was not by her side to cheer her 
gradually darkening life. 

She wrote the main facts concerning Lord Courtleroy’s 
death and the change in her circumstances in short, rather 
disjointed letters to Lesley, and received very tender 
replies; but even then she felt a vague dissatisfaction with 
the girl’s letters. They were full of a wistfulness which 
she could not understand : she felt that something remote 
had crept into them, some aloofness for which she could 
not account. And as Captain Harry Duchesne happened 
to come across her one day, and inquired very particularly 
after Miss Brooke, she induced him to promise to call on 
Lesley when he was in London, and to report to her all 
that Lesley did or said. If it was a somewhat underhand 
proceeding, she told herself that she was justified by her 
anxiety as a mother. 

Lord Courtleroy had left a considerable sum to Lesley, 
and when mother and daughter were reunited, as Lady 
Alice hoped that they would shortly be, there was no 
question as to their having means enough and to spare. 
Lady Alice began to dream of a dear little country house 
in Sussex, with an occasional season in London, or a winter 
at Bagn^res. She was recalled from her dreams to the 
realities of life by a letter from her husband. Caspar 
Brooke wrote to ask whether, under present circum- 
stances, she would not return to him. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


197 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

CAPTAIN DUCHESNE. 

Lesley's life seemed to her now much less lonely than it 
had been at first. The consciousness of having made 
friends was pleasant to her, although her affection for 
Ethel had been for a time overshadowed by the recollection 
of Oliver's unfaithfulness. But when this impression 
passed away, as it gradually did, after the scene that had 
been so painful to her, she consoled herself with the belief 
that Oliver's words and actions had proceeded from a 
temporary derangement of judgment, for which he was not 
altogether responsible, and that he had returned to his 
allegiance ; therefore she might continue to be friendly 
with Ethel without any sensation of treachery or shame. 
An older woman than Lesley would not, perhaps, have 
argued in this way : she would have suspected the perma- 
nence of Oliver’s feelings more than Lesley did. But, 
being only an inexperienced girl, Lesley comforted herself 
by the fact that Oliver now avoided her ; and said that it 
could not be possible for her to have attracted him away 
from Ethel, who was so winning, so sweet, so altogether 
delightful. 

Then, apart from the Kenyons, she began to make 
pleasant acquaintances amongst her father's friends. Cas- 
par Brooke's house was a centre of interest and entertain- 
ment for a large number of intellectual men and women ; 
and Lesley had as many opportunities for wearing her 
pretty evening gowns as she could have desired. There 
were at homes " to which her charming presence and her 
beautiful voice attracted Caspar’s friends in greater num- 
bers than ever : there were dinner-parties where her inter- 
est in the new world around her made everything else 
interesting ; and there was a constant coming and going 
of people who had work to do in the world, and who did 
it with more or less success, which made the house in 
Woburn Place anything but a dull abode. 


198 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


The death of her grandfather distressed her less from 
regret for himself than from anxiety for her mother’s future. 
Lady Alice’s notes to her were very short and somewhat 
vaguely worded. It was, therefore, with positive joy that, 
one afternoon in spring, she was informed by her maid 
that Captain Duchesne was in the drawing-room, for she 
felt sure that he would be able to tell her many details 
that she did not know. She made haste to go down, and 
yet, before she went, she paused to say a word to Kings- 
ton, who had brought her the welcome news. 

‘‘ I wish you would go out, Kingston ; you don’t look 
at all well, and this spring air might do you good.” 

It was certainly easy to see that Kingston was not well. 
During the past few weeks her face had become positively 
emaciated, her eyes were sunken, and her lips were white. 
She looked like a person who had recently passed through 
some illness or misfortune. Lesley had tried, delicately 
and with reserve, to question her ; but Kingston had never 
replied to any of her inquiries. She would shut up her 
lips, and turn away with the look of one who could keep a 
secret to the grave. 

“ Nothing will do me good, ma’am,” she answered 
dryly. 

Oh, Kingston, I am so sorry ! ” 

Go down to your visitor, ma’am, and don’t mind me,” 
said Kingston, turning her back on the girl with unusual 
abruptness. “ It isn’t much that I’ve got to be sorry for, 
after all.” 

If there is anything I can do to help you, you will let 
me know, will you not ? ” said Lesley. 

But Kingston’s ‘^Yes, ma’am,” fell with a despairing 
cadence on her ear. 

Kingston had been to her husband’s lodgings only to find 
that he had disappeared. He had left some of his clothes, 
and the few articles of furniture that belonged to his wife, 
and had never said that he was going away. The accident 
that had made Francis Trent a patient at the hospital 
where Lady Alice visited was of course unknown to his 
landlady, as also to his wife. And as his memory did not 
return to him speedily, poor Mary Trent had been left to 
suffer all the tortures of anxiety for some weeks. At first 
she thought that some injury had happened to him — per- 
haps that he was dead : then a harder spirit took posses- 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


199 


sion of her, and she made up her mind that he had finally 
abandoned her — had got money from Oliver and departed 
to America without her. She might have asked Oliver 
whether this were so, but she was too proud to ask. She 
preferred to eat out her heart in solitude. She believed 
herself deserted for ever, and the only grain of consolation 
that remained to her was the hope of making herself so 
useful and acceptable to Lesley Brooke, that when Leslie 
married she would ask Mary Kingston to go with her to 
her new home. 

Kingston had made up her mind about the man that 
Lesley was to marry. She had seen him come and go : 
she had seen him look at her dear Miss Lesley with 
ardently admiring eyes ; she believed that he would be a 
true and faithful husband to her. But she knew more 
than Lesley was aware of yet. 

Lesley went slowly down into the drawing-room. She 
remembered Captain Duchesne very well, and she was 
glad to think of seeing him again. And yet there was an 
indefinable slirinking — she did not know how or why. 
Harry Duchesne was connected with her old life — with the 
Paris lights, the Paris drawing-rooms, the stately old 
grandfather, the graceful mother — the whole assembly of 
things that seemed so far away. She did not understand 
her whole feeling, but it suddenly appeared to her as if 
Captain Duchesne's visit was a mistake, and she had better 
get it over as soon as possible. 

It must be confessed that this sensation vanished as soon 
as she came into the actual presence of Captaip Duchesne. 
The young man, with his grave, handsome features, his 
drooping, black moustache, his soldierly bearing, had an 
attraction for her after all. He reminded her of the mother 
whom she loved. 

It was not very easy to get into conversation with him 
at first. He seemed as ill at ease as Lesley herself had 
been. But when she fell to questioning him about Lady 
Alice, his tongue became unloosed. 

She does not know exactly what to do. She talks of 
taking a house in London — if you would like it." 

‘‘ Would mamma care to live in London ? " 

‘‘ Not for her own sake : for yours." 

‘‘ But I — I do not think I like London so much,'' said 
Lesley, with a swift blush and some hesitation. Captain 
Duchesne looked at her searchingly. 


200 


BRCOKF^S DAUGHTER. 


• ^Indeed? I understood that you had become much 
attached to it. I am sure Lady Alice thinks so/’ 

I do love it — yes, but it is on account of the people 
who live in London,’’ said Lesley. 

Ah^ you have made friends ? ” 

“ There is my father, you know.” 

‘‘ Yes.” And something in his tone made Lesley change 
the subject hurriedly. Captain Duchesne would never 
have been so ill-bred as to speak disparagingly of a lady’s 
father to her face ; and yet she felt that there was some- 
thing disparaging in the tone. 

‘‘ Have you seen the present Lord Courtleroy ? ” she 
asked. 

‘‘ Yes ; I have met him once or twice. He is somewhat 
stiff and rigid in appearance, but he is very courteous — 
more than courteous. Lady Alice tells me, for he is kind. 
He wishes to disturb her as little as possible — entreats her 
to stay at Courtleroy, and so on ; but naturally she wishes 
to have a house of her own.” 

‘‘ Of course. But I thought that she would prefer the 
South of France.” 

“ If I may say so without offence,” said Captain Duchesne, 
smiling, ‘‘ Lady Alice’s tastes seem to be changing. She 
used to love the country and inveigh against the ugliness of 
town ; but now she spends her time in visiting hospitals 
and exploring Whitechapel ” 

Lesley almost sprang to her feet. Oh, Captain Du- 
chesne, are you in earnest ? ” 

Quite in earnest.” 

‘‘ Oh, I am so glad ! ” 

“Why, may I ask? ” said Duchesne, with real curiosity. 
But Lesley clasped her hands tightly together and hung 
her head, feeling that she could not explain to a compara- 
tive stranger how she felt that community of interests 
might tend to a reconciliation between the long separated 
father and mother. And in the rather awkward pause that 
followed, Miss Ethel Kenyon was announced. 

Lesley was very glad to see her, and glad to see that 
she looked approvingly at Captain Duchesne, and launched 
at once into an animated conversation with him. Lesley 
relapsed almost into silence for a time, but a satisfied 
smile played upon her lips. It seemed to her that Cap- 
tain Duchesne’s dark eyes lighted up when he talked to 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


201 


Ethel as they had not done when he talked to her ; that 
Etheks cheeks dimpled with her most irresistible smile, 
and that her voice was full of pretty cadences, delighted 
laughter, mirth and sweetness. Lesley’s nature was so 
thoroughly unselfish, that she could bear to be set aside 
for a friend’s sake ; and she was so ingenuous and single- 
minded that she put no strained interpretation on the 
honest admiration which she read in Harry Duchesne’s 
eyes. It may have been partly in hopes of drawing her 
once more into the conversation that he turned to her 
presently with a laughing remark anent her love of smoky 
London. 

“ Oh, but it is not the smoke I like,” Lesley answered. 

It is the people.’^ 

‘‘ Especially the poor people,” put in Ethel, saucily. 

Now, I can’t bear poor people ; can you, Captain Du- 
chesne ? ” 

I don’t care for them much, I’m afraid.” 

I like to do them good, and all that sort of thing,” 
said Ethel. ‘‘ Don’t look so sober, Lesley ! I like to act 
to them, or sing to them, or give them money ; but I must 
say I don’t like visiting them in the slums, or having to 
stand too close to them anywhere. I am so glad that you 
agree with me. Captain Duchesne ! 

And not long afterwards she graciously invited him to 
call upon her on her day,” and promised him a stall at 
an approaching matinee^ two pieces of especial favor, as 
Lesley knew. 

Captain Duchesne sat on as if fascinated by the brilliant 
little vision that had charmed his eyes ; and not until an 
unconscionable time had elapsed did he seem able to tear 
himself away. When he had gone, Ethel expressed her- 
self approvingly of his looks and manners. 

‘‘I like those soldierly-looking men,” she said. ‘‘So 
well set up and distinguished in appearance. Is he an old 
friend of yours, Lesley ! ” 

“ No, I have met him only once before. In Paris, he 
dined with us — with my grandfather, my mother, and my- 
self.” 

“ And he comes from Lady Alice now ? ” 

“Yes, to bring me news of her.” 

Ethel nodded her bright little head sagaciously. 

“ It’s very plain what Lady Alice wants, then?” 


io2 BROOKES DA UGHTER. 

‘‘ What ? said Lesley, opening her eyes in wide amaze, 

“ She wants you to marry him, my dear.” 

Nonsense ! 

“ It’s not nonsense : don’t get so red about it, you silly 
girl. What a baby you are, Lesley.” 

I am sure mamma never thought of anything of the 
kind,” said Lesley, with dignity, although her cheeks were 
still red. 

‘‘ We shall see what we shall see. Well, I won’t put my 
oar in — isn’t that kind of me ? But, indeed, your Captain 
Duchesne looks thoroughly ripe for a flirtation, and it will 
be as much as I can do to keep my hands off him.” 

“ How would Mr. Trent like that? ” said Lesley, trying 
to carry the war into the enemy’s camp. 

He would bear it with the same equanimity with which 
he bears the rest of my caprices,” said Ethel, merrily ; but 
a shade crossed her brow, and she allowed Lesley to lead 
the conversation to the subject of her trousseau. 

Captain Duchesne did not seem slow to avail himself of 
the favor accorded to him. He presented himself at 
Ethel’s next at home ; ” and devoted himself to her with 
curious assiduity. Even the discovery of her engagement 
to Mr. Trent did not change his manner. It was not so 
much that he paid her actual attention, as that he paid 
none to anybody else. When she was not talking to him, 
he kept silence. He seemed always to be observing her, 
her face, her manner, her dress, her attitude. Yet this 
kind of observation was quite respectful and unobtrusive : 
it was merely its continuity that excited remark. Oliver 
noticed it at last, and professed himself jealous : in fact he 
was a little bit jealous, although he did not love Ethel 
overmuch. But he had a pride of possession in her which 
would not allow him to look with equanimity on the pros- 
pect of her being made love to by anybody else. 

Ethel enjoyed the attentions, and enjoyed Oliver’s jeal- 
ousy, in her usual spirit of childlike gaiety. She was quite 
assured of Oliver’s affection for her now ; and she looked 
forward with shy delight to the day of her wedding, which 
had been fixed for the twentieth of March. 

Meanwhile, Oliver was devoured with secret anxiety. For 
what had become of Francis, and when would he appear to 
demand the money which had been promised to him on 
the day when the marriage should take place ? 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


203 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

MR. BROOKE’S DESIRES. 

Lady Alice’s movements were not without interest to 
Caspar Brooke, although Lesley did not suspect the fact. 
It was quite a surprise to her when he entered the library 
one day, with apparently no other object than that of say- 
ing abruptly, 

“ What is your mother going to do, Lesley ? ” 

“ To do ? ” said Lesley, flushing slightly and looking 
astonished. 

‘‘Yes” — impatiently. “Where is she going to live? 
What will become of her ? Do you want to go to her? I 
wish to hear what you know about her arrangements.” 

He planted himself on the hearth-rug in what might be 
termed an aggressive attitude — really the expression of 
some embarrassment of feeling. It certainly seemed hard 
to him at that moment to have to ask his daughter these 
questions. 

“ I think,” said Lesley, with downcast eyes, “ that she 
is trying to find a house to suit her in Mayfair.” 

“ Mayfixir. Then half her income will go in rent and 
taxes. Will she live there alone ? ” 

“ Yes. At least — unless — until ” 

“Until you join her : I understand. Will” — and then 
he made a long pause before continuing — “ if she wants 
you to join her at once, and you wish to go, don’t let this 
previous arrangement stand in the way. I shall not inter- 
fere,” 

His curtness, his abruptness, would once have startled 
and terrified Lesley. She had of late grown so much less 
afraid of him, that now she only lifted her eyes, with a 
proud, grieving look in them, and said, 

“ Do you want me to go away, then ? ” 

“ Wa7it you to go ? Certainly not, child,” * and Mr. 
Brooke stretched out his hand, and drew her to him with a 


204 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


caressing gesture. No : I like to have you here. But I 
thought you wanted to go to her.'’ 

So I do,” said Lesley, the tears coming to her eyes. 

But — I want to stay, too. I want” — and she put both 
hands on his arms with a gesture as affectionate as his own 
— I want my father and mother both.” 

I’m afraid that is an impossible wish.” 

But why should it be ? ” said Lesley, looking up into 
his face beseechingly. 

His features twitched for a moment with unwonted 
emotion. You know nothing about it,” he said— but he 
did not speak harshly. ^‘You can’t judge of the circum- 
stances. What can I do ? Even if I asked her she would 
not come back to me.’^ 

And then he put his daughter gently from him and went 
down to his study, where he paced up and down the floor 
for a good half-hour, instead of settling down as usual to 
his work. 

But Lesley’s words were not without their effect, although 
he had put them aside so decidedly. With that young, 
fair face looking so pleadingly into his own, it did not seem 
impossible that she should form a new tie between himself 
and his wife. Of course he had always known that children 
were conventionally supposed to bind the hearts of hus- 
band and wife to each other ; but in his own case he had 
not found that a daughter produced that result. On the 
contrary, Lesley had been for many years a sort of bone of 
contention between himself and his wife ; and he had re- 
tained a cynical sense of the futility of such conventional 
utterances, which were every day contradicted by barefaced 
facts. 

But now he began to acknowledge that Lesley was draw- 
ing his heart closer to his wife. The charm of a family 
circle began to rise before him. Pleasant, indeed, would 
it be to find that his dingy old house bore once more the 
characteristics of a home ; that womankind was represented 
in it by fairer faces and softer voices than the face and 
voice even of dear old Doctor Sophy, with her advanced 
theories, her committees, and her brisk disregard of the 
amenities of life. Yes, he would give a good deal to see 
Alice — it was long since he had thought of her by that 
name — established in his drawing-room (which she shou’d 
refurbish and adorn to her heart’s content), with Lesley by 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


205 


her side, and himself at liberty to stroll in and out, to be 
smiled upon, and — yes, after all, this was his dearest wish 
— to dare to lavish the love of which his great heart was 
full upon the wife and child whose loss had been the mis- 
fortune of his life. 

As he thought of the past years, it seemed to him that 
they h^ been very bleak and barren. True, he had done 
many things ; he had influenced many people, and accom- 
plished some good work ; but what had he got out of it for 
himself? He was an Individualist at heart, as most men 
are, and he felt conscious of a claim which the world had 
not granted. It was almost a shock to him to feel the 
egoistic desire for personal happiness stirring strongly 
within him ; the desire had been suppressed for so long, 
that when it once awoke it surprised him by its vitality. 

The outcome of these reflections was seen in a letter 
written that day after his talk with Lesley. He seated 
himself at last at his writing-table, and after some minutes^ 
thought dashed off the following epistle. He did not stop 
for a word, he would not hesitate about the wording of 
sentences : it seemed to him that if he paused to consider, 
his resolution might be shaken, his purpose become un- 
fixed. 

My Dear Alice,” he wrote — I hear from Lesley that 
you are looking for a house. Would it not be better for us 
all if you made your home with me again ? Things have 
changed since you left me, and I might now be better able 
to consult your tastes and wishes than I was then. We 
are both older and, I hope, wiser. Could we not manage 
to put aside some of our personal predilections and make 
a home together for our daughter ? I use this argument 
because I believe it will have more weight with you than 
any other : at the same time, I may add that it is for my 
own sake, as well as for Lesley’s, that I make the proposi- 
tion. Your affectionate husband. 


Caspar Brooke.” 

It was an odd ending, he thought : he had certainly 
not shown himself an affectionate husband to her for many 
years. But there was truth in the epithet : little as she 
might believe it, or as it might appear. He would not 


2o6 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


Stop to re-read the letter : he had said what he wanted to 
say, and she could read his meaning easily enough. He 
had held out the olive branch. It was for her to accept 
or reject it, as she would. 

Lesley could not understand why he was so restless and 
apparently uneasy during the next few days. He seemed 
to be looking for something — expecting something — no- 
body knew what. He spent more time than usual with 
her, and took a new interest in her affairs. She did not 
know that he was trying to put himself into training for 
domestic life, and that he found it unexpectedly pleasant. 

What’s this ” he said one day, picking up a scrap of 
paper that fell from a book that she held in her hand. 

Not a letter, I think ? Have you been making extracts ? 

No,’' said Lesley, blushing violently, but not trying to 
take the paper from him. 

May I see it? Oh, a sort of essay — description — im- 
pressions of London in a fog.” He murmured a few of the 
words and phrases as he went on. Why, this is very 
good. Here’s the real literary touch. Where did you get 
this, Lesley? It’s not half bad.” 

As she made no answer, he looked up and saw the guilty 
laughter in her eyes, the conscious blushes on her cheeks. 

You don’t mean to say ” 

*‘I only wrote it to amuse myself,” said Lesley, meekly. 
“ I’ve had so little to do since I came here, and I thought 
I would scribble down my impressions.” 

‘‘ My dear child,” said Mr. Brooke, “ if you can write as 
well as this, you ought to have a career before you. Why,” 
he added, surveying her, I had no idea of this. And I 
always did have a secret wish that a child of mine should 
take to literature. My dear ” 

But I don’t want to take to literature, exactly,” said 
Lesley, with a little gasp. I only want to amuse myself 
sometimes — just when I feel inclined, if you don’t think it 
a great waste of time ” 

Waste of time? Certainly not. Go on, by all means. 
I shall only ask to see what you do now and then ; I might 
be able to give you a hint — though I don’t know. Your 
style is very good already — wants a little compression, 
perhaps, but you can make sentences — that’s a comfort.” 
And Mr. Brooke fell to reading the manuscript again, with 
a very pleased look upon his face, 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


207 


It was while he was still reading that a servant brought 
in some letters which had just arrived. He opened the 
first that came to hand almost unthinkingly, for his mind 
was quite absorbed in the discovery which he had made. 
It was only when his eye rested on the first page of the 
letter that memory came back to him. He gave a great 
start, rose up, putting Lesley's paper away from him, and 
went to the other side of the room to read his letter. It 
was as follows : — 

“ Dear Mr. Brooke, — 

I have already found a house that I think will suit me, and I hope 
that Lesley will join me there as soon as you can spare her. I am 
afraid that it is a little too late to change our respective ways of life. 
It would be no advantage to Lesley to live with parents who were not 
agreed. 

Yours very truly, 

Alice Brooke.” 

Caspar Brooke turned round with a face that had grown 
strangely pale, walked across the room to Lesley, and 
dropped the letter in her lap. 

There ! " he said. “ I have done my uttermost. That 
is your mother’s reply to me.” 

He strode out of the room, without deigning to answer 
her cry of surprise and inquiry, and Lesley took up the 
letter. 

It was with a burst of tears that she put it down. Oh, 
mother, mother ! ” she cried to herself, how can you be 
so unkind, so unjust, so unforgiving ? He is the best man 
in the world, and yet you have the heart to hurt him.’^ 

She did not see her father again until the next day, and 
then, although she made no reference in words to the letter 
which she restored to him, her pale and downcast looks 
spoke for her, and told the sympathy which she did not 
dare to utter. Mr. Brooke kissed her, and felt vaguely 
comforted ; but it began to occur to him that he had made 
Lesley’s position a hard one by insisting on her visit to his 
house, and that it might have been happier for her if she 
had remained hostile to himself, or ignorant of his existence. 
For now, when she went back to her mother, would not the 
affection that she evidently felt for him rise up as a barrier 
between herself and Lady Alice ? Would she not try to 
fight for him? She was brave enough, and impetuous 


2o8 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


enough, to do it. And then Alice might justly accuse him 
of having embittered the relation, hitherto so sweet, between 
mother and daughter, and thereby inflicted on her an injury 
which nothing on earth could repair or justify. 

Could nothing be done to remedy this state of things ? 
Caspar Brooke began to feel worried by it. His mind was 
generally so serene that the intrusion of a personal anxiety 
seemed monstrous to him. He found it difficult to write 
in his accustomed manner : he felt a diminution of his 
interest in the club. With masculine impatience of such 
an unwonted condition, he went off at last to Maurice 
Kenyon, and asked him seriously whether his brain, his 
heart, or his liver were out of order. For that something 
was the matter with him, he felt sure, and he wanted the 
doctor to tell him what it was. 

Maurice questioned and examined him carefully, then 
assured him with a hearty laugh that even his digestion 
was in the best possible working order. 

Brooke gave himself a shake like a great dog, looked 
displeased for a moment, and then burst out laughing too. 

‘‘ I suppose it is nothing, after all,” he said. I’ve been 
a trifle anxious and worried lately. Nothing of any im- 
portance, my dear fellow. By the by, have you been to see 
Lesley lately ? ” 

May I speak to her ? said Maurice, his face brighten- 
ing. I thought ” 

‘‘ Speak when you like,” Caspar answered, curtly. I 
almost wish you would get it over. Get it settled, I 
mean.” 

I shall get it settled as soon as I can, certainly,” said 
Maurice. 

And Mr. Brooke went away, thinking that after all he 
had found one way of escape from his troubles. For if 
Lesley accepted Maurice, and lived with him in a house 
opposite her father’s, there would always be a corner for 
him at their fireside, and he would not go to the grave feel- 
ing himself a childless, loveless, desolate old man. 

It must be conceded that Mr. Brooke had sunk to a very 
low pitch of dejection when he was dominated by such 
thoughts as these. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


209 


CHAPTER XXV. 

LESLEY’S PROMISE. 

Maurice was no backward lover. He made his way to 
Lesley that very day, and found her in the library — not, as 
usual, bending over a book, but standing by the window, 
from which could be seen a piece of waste ground over- 
grown with grass and weeds, and shaded by some great 
plane and elm trees. There was nothing particularly fasci- 
nating in the outlook, which partook of the usual grimness 
of a London atmosphere; but the young green of the 
budding trees spoke, in spite of the blackness of their 
branches, of spring and spring’s delight ; and there was a 
brightness in the tints of the tangled grass which gave a 
restful satisfaction to the eye. Lesley was looking out 
upon this scene with a wistfulness which struck Maurice 
with some surprise. 

‘‘You like this window?” he said, interrogatively, when 
they had shaken hands and exchanged a word or two of 
greeting. 

“ Yes, it reminds me in some way of my old convent 
home. I don’t know why it should; but there are trees 
and grass and greenness.” 

“ Ah, you love the country ? ” 

“ Do not you ? ” 

“ Yes, but there are better things in the world than even 
trees and grass.” 

“ Ah, yes,” said Lesley, eagerly. Then, with a little 
smile, she added, as if quoting — “Souls of men.” 

“ I was thinking of their bodies,” said the young doctor. 
“ But that’s as it should be. You think of the spiritual, I 
only of the material side. Both sides ought to be con- 
sidered : that is where men and women meet, I take it.” 

“ I suppose so,” said Lesley, a little vaguely. 

“ I’m afraid,” Maurice went on, “ that it will be a long 
time before I have a country house of my own : a place 
where there will be trees and green meadows and flowers, 

14 


210 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


such as one loves and sighs for. I have often thought ” — 
with a note of agitation in his voice — “ how much easier it 
would be to ask any one to share my life if I had these 
good things to offer. My only chance has been to find 
some one who cares — as I care — for the souls and bodies 
of the men and women around us ; who would not disdain 
to help me in my work.” 

Who could disdain it ? asked Lesley, innocently 
indignant. 

Do you mean — turning suddenly upon her — that 
you don’t consider a hard working doctor’s life something 
inexpressibly beneath you ? ” 

She drew back a little hurt, a little bit astonished. 

Certainly not. Why should I ? ” 

‘‘You are born to a life of luxury and self-indulgence.” 

“ My father is a journalist,” said Lesley with a smile, in 
which amusement struggled with offence. 

“ But your grandfather was an earl ! It is possible,” 
with a touch of raillery, “ that you prefer earls to general 
practitioners.” 

“ Of the two, it is the doctor that leads the better life, 
in my opinion,” said Lesley, rather hotly ; but immediately 
cooling down, she added the remark — “ My preferences 
have nothing much, however, to do with the matter.” 

“ Have they not ? How little you know your own power ! ” 

Lesley looked at him in much amaze. Whither this 
conversation was tending it had not yet occurred to her to 
inquire. But something in his look, as he stood fronting 
her, brought the color to her cheeks and caused her eyes 
to sink. She became suddenly a little afraid of him, and 
wished herself a thousand miles away. Indeed she made 
one backward step, as if her maidenly instincts were about 
to manifest themselves in actual flight. But Maurice saw 
the movement, and made two steps forward, which brought 
him so close to her that he could have touched her hand 
if he had wished. 

“ Don’t you understand? ” he said, in an agitated voice. 
“ Don’t you see that your opinion — your preferences — are 
all the world to me ? ” 

He paused as if expecting her to reply — leaning a little 
towards her to catch Ihe word from her lips. But Lesley 
did not speak. She remained motionless, as pale now as 
she had been red before — her hands hanging at her sides 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


2II 


and her eyes fixed iq^on the ground. She looked as if she 
were stricken dumb with dismay. 

I know that I have not recommended myself to you by 
anything that I have said or done/^ Maurice went on. I 
misjudged you once, and I spoke roughly, rudely, brutally ; 
but it was the way you took what I said which made me 
understand you. You were so fine, so noble, so sweet ! 
Instead of making my stupidity an excuse for shutting 
yourself away from what your father was doing, you im- 
mediately threw yourself into it, you began to work with 
^im and for him — as of course I might have seen that 
you would do directly you came to know him. I was a 
fool, and you were an angel — that summarizes the situation.’^ 
A faint smile curled Lesley’s lips, although she did not 
look up. I am afraid there is not much of the angel 
about me,” she said. 

Ah, you can’t see yourself as others see you,” he 
answered, quite ignoring the implication in her remark 
which a less ardent lover might have resented. “ To 
me, at any rate, you are the one woman in the world, the 
only one I have ever loved — shall ever love as long as I 
live — the fulfilment of my ideal — the realization of all my 
dreams ! 

His vehemence made Lesley draw back. 

‘‘You exaggerate,” she said with a slight shake of the 
head. “ Indeed, I am not all that — I could not be. I am 

very ignorant and full of faults. I have a bad temper ” 

“ You have a temper that is sweetness itself ! ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Kenyon, how can you say so ? ” — with a look 
of reproach. “ You who have seen me so angry ! ” 

“ Your temper is just like your father’s,” said Maurice, 

dogmatically. “ A little hot, if you like, but sweet ” 

“ Something like preserved ginger? ” asked Lesley. 

The two young people looked at each other with laughter 
in their eyes. This was Lesley’s way of trying to stave off 
the inevitable. If Maurice’s declaration could only be 
construed into idle compliment, she would be rid of the 
necessity of giving him a plain answer. And what had 
been begun as a proposal of marriage seemed likely to 
degenerate into a fencing match. 

Maurice saw the danger, and was too quick-witted to 
fall unawares into the trap which Lesley had laid for him. 
A war of words was the very thing in which he and Ethel 


212 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


most delighted; and it was usually quite easy to induce 
brother and sister to engage upon it. But on this occasion 
he was too much in earnest for word-play. Pie laughed at 
Lesley’s simile, and then became suddenly and almost 
fiercely grave. 

I can’t let you turn the whole thing into a joke,” he 
said. You know that I mean what I say. It is a matter 
of life and death to me. I love you with my whole heart, 
and I come to-day to know whether there is any chance for 
me — whether you can honor me with your love — whether 
you will one day consent to be my wife.” 

His voice sank to a pleading tone, and his face was very 
pale. But he felt that a great display of emotion would 
frighten and repel the girl, and he therefore sedulously 
avoided, as far as possible, any appearance of agitation. 
He could not, however, entirely achieve the calmness which 
he desired, and the very suppression of his agitation, which, 
in spite of himself, made his voice shake, and brought 
fire to his eyes, had an unwontedly unnerving effect upon 
Lesley. 

Oh, I don’t know,” she said hurriedly. ‘‘ I can’t tell 
— I never thought ” 

Think now,” he said persuasively. Am I disagree- 
able to you ? ” 

No,” — very softly. 

Have you forgiven me for my bad behavior in the 
past?” 

‘‘ You never did behave badly.” 

But you have forgiven me ? ” 

Oh, yes.” 

This was illogical, as she had previously intimated that 
there was nothing to forgive ; but, under such circum- 
stances, Lesley may be excused. 

And — surely, then — you like me a little ! ” 

A little,” Lesley breathed, rather than spoke, with an 
unconscious smile of happiness. 

Can you not call it ‘ loving ? ’ ” asked Maurice, daring 
for the first time to take her soft little hand in his. 

But the question, the look, the touch, suddenly terrified 
Lesley, and brought back to her mind a long-forgotten 
promise. What was it her mother had required of her 
before she left Paris for her father’s house ? Was it not a 
pledge that she should not bind herself to marry any man ? 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


213 


— that she should not engage herself to be married ? 
Lesley had an instinctive knowledge of the fact that to 
proclaim her promise would be to cast discredit on Lady 
Alice ; and so, while trying to keep her word, she sought 
for means to avoid telling the whole truth. 

“ No, oh no,’^ she said, withdrawing her hand at once 
and turning away. Indeed, I could not. Please do not 
ask me any more.’^ 

The shock was very great to Maurice. He stood perfectly 
silent for a moment. He had thought that he was making 
such good progress — and, behold ! the wind had suddenly 
changed ; the face of the heavens was overcast. He tried 
to think that he had been mistaken, and made another 
attempt to win a favorable hearing. 

‘‘Miss Brooke — Lesley — you say you like me a little. 
Do you not think that your liking for me might grow ? 
When you know that I love you so tenderly, that I would 
lay down my very life for you, when you can hear all that 
I can tell you of my hopes, my dreams, my aspirations 

“I do not want to hear,” said Lesley, putting out her 
hand blindly. “ Please do not tell me : it makes me miser- 
able — indeed, I must not listen.” 

Again Maurice stood silent for a moment. 

“ Must not listen ? ” he repeated at length, with a keen 
look at her. “ Why must you not ? 

Lesley made no answer. 

“You speak strangely,” said Kenyon, with some slight 
coldness beginning to manifest itself in his manner. “ Why 
should you not listen to me ? If you are thinking of your 
father, I can assure you that he has no objection to me. I 
have consulted him already. He would be honestly glad, 
I believe, if you could care for me — he has told me so. 
Does his opinion go for nothing? ” 

She shook her head. 

“ I can’t explain,’' she said brokenly. “ I can only ask 
you not to say anything — at least — I have promised ” 

“ Promised not to listen to me ? ” 

“To anything of the kind,” said Lesley, feeling that she 
was making a terrible mess of the whole affair, and yet 
unable to loosen her tongue sufficiently to explain. 

“ May I ask to whom you gave this promise? ” 

“ No,” said Lesley. 


214 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


There was another silence, but this time it was a silence 
cliarged with ominous significance. Maurice’s face was very 
white, and a peculiar rigidity showed itself in the lines of 
his features. He was very much disappointed, and he also 
felt that he had some right to be displeased. 

“ If you were bound by any such promise. Miss Brooke,” 
he said, ‘‘ I think it would have been better that your 
friends should have known of it. I don’t think that Mr. 
Brooke was aware ” 

‘‘ Oh, no, he knew nothing about it.” 

“ It was a promise made before you came here ? ” 

Yes.” 

‘‘ Of which your mother — Lady Alice — approves?” 

Oh, yes — it was to her — because she ” 

Lesley stammered and tried to explain. There was a tre- 
mendous oppression upon her, such as one feels sometimes 
in a nightmare dream. She longed to speak out, to clear 
herself in Maurice’s eyes, and yet she could not frame a 
single intelligible sentence. It was as though she were 
afflicted with dumbness. 

‘‘ I think,” said Maurice, deliberately, “ that your father 
and your aunt had a right to know this fact. You seem 
to have kept them in ignorance of it. And I have been 
led into a mistake. I can assure you. Miss Brooke, that 
if I had been aware of any previous promise — or — or en- 
gagement of yours, I should never have presumed to speak 
as I have spoken to-day. I can but apologize and with- 
draw.” 

Before Lesley could answer, he had taken his hat, bowed 
profoundly, and left the room. 

And Lesley, with lips from which all color had faded, 
and hands pressed tightly together, watched him go, and 
stood for some minutes in dazed, despairing silence before 
she could say, even to herself, with a burst of hot and bit- 
ter tears, 

“ Oh, Ldid not mean him to think that. And now I 
cannot explain 1 What shall I do ? What can I do to 
make him understand ? ” 

But that was a question for which she found no answer. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


215 


CHAPTER XX VI. 

CURED. 

‘‘ You are quite well/' said the doctor to John Smith, 
otherwise called Francis Trent, at the great hospital one 
day. “ You can go out to-morrow. There is nothing more 
that we can do for you." 

Smith raised his dull eyes to their faces. 

‘‘ Am I — cured ? " he asked. 

One of the doctors shrugged his shoulders a little. Ano- 
ther answered kindly and pityingly, 

‘‘You will find that you are not as strong as you used 
to be. Not the same man in many respects. But you will 
be able to get your own living, and we see no reason for 
detaining you here. What was your trade ? " 

The patient looked down at his white, thin hands. “ I 
don't know," he said. 

“ Have you friends to go to ? " 

There was a pause. Some of the medical students who 
were listening came a little nearer. As a matter of fact, 
Francis Trent's future depended very largely on the an- 
swer he made to this question. The statement that he was 
“ quite well " was hazarded rather by way of experiment 
than as a matter of fact. The doctors wanted to know 
what he would say and do under pressure, for some of 
them were beginning to suggest that the man should be 
removed to the workhouse infirmary or a lunatic asylum. 

%His faculties seemed to be hopelessly beclouded. 

Suddenly he lifted his head. A new sharp light had 
come into his eyes. He nodded reassuringly. 

“ Yes, I have friends," he said. 

“ You have a home where you can go ? Shall we write 
to your friends to meet you ? " 

“ No, thank you, sir. I can find my own way home." 

And then they conferred together a little, and left him, 
and reported that he was cured. 

Certainly, there seemed to be nothing the matter with 
him now. His wounds and injuries had healed, his bodily 


2I6 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


strength was returning. But the haze which hung over his 
mind was far more impenetrable than the doctors guessed. 
Something of it had been apparent to them in the earlier 
days of his illness ; but his clear and decided answers to 
their questions convinced them that memory had to some 
extent returned. As a matter of fact it was not memory 
that had returned, but a sharpening of his perceptive facul- 
ties, awakening him to the fact that he stood in danger of 
being taken for an idiot or a madman if he did not frame 
some answer to the questions which the doctors asked him. 
This new acuteness was perhaps the precursor to a return 
of his memory ; but as yet the Past was like a dead wall, 
an abyss of darkness surrounding him. Now and then 
flashes of light seemed to dart across that darkness : he 
seemed on the point of recalling something — he knew not 
what ; for the flashes faded as quickly as they came, and 
made the darkness all the greater for the contrast. 

He was possessed now by the idea that if he could get 
out of hospital, and walk along the London streets, he 
might remember all that he had forgotten. His own name, 
his own history, had become a blank to him. He knew 
in some vague, forlorn fashion, that he had once been what 
the world calls a gentleman. He had not acknowledged so 
much to the doctors : he had not felt that they would 
believe him. Even when the groping after the Past became 
most painful, he made up his mind that he would not ask 
these scientific men for help : he was afraid of being 
treated as a case,’^ experimented on, written about in the 
papers. There was something in the Past of which he 
knew he ought to be ashamed. What could it be ? He was 
afraid to ask, lest he might find himself to be a criminal. 

In these haunting terrors there was, of course, a distinct 
token of possible insanity. The man needed a friendly, 
guiding hand to steer him back to the world of reason and 
common-sense. But to whom could he go, since he had 
taken up this violent prejudice against the doctors? He 
felt drawn to none of the nurses, although some of them 
had been very kind to him. The only person to whom 
he might perhaps have disburthened himself, if he had had 
the opportunity, was the sweet-voiced, sweet-faced woman 
whom he had warned of the ill effects of her gifts. He did 
not know her name, or anything about her ; but before he 
left the hospital he asked one of the nurses who she was. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


217 


Lady Alice Brooke — daughter of the Lord Courtleroy, 
who died the other day,” was the reply. 

‘‘ Could you give me her address ? 

No ; and I don’t think that if I could it would be of 
any use to you. She is leaving England, I believe. If 
you want work or help, why don’t you speak to Mr. 
Kenyon ? He’s the gentleman to find both for you — Mr. 
Maurice Kenyon.” 

Which is Mr. Kenyon ? ” 

There — he’s just passing through the next ward ; shall 
I speak to him for you ? ” 

No, thank you : I don’t want anything from him : I 
only wanted the lady’s name,” said John Smith, in a dogged 
sullen kind of way, which made the whitecapped nurse 
look at him suspiciously. 

Brooke ! — Kenyon ? ” — How oddly familiar the names 
seemed to him ! Of course they were not very uncommon 
names ; but there was a distinct familiarity about them 
which had nothing to do with the names themselves, as if 
they had some connection with his own history and his 
own affairs. 

He was discharged — cured.” He went out into the 
streets with half-a-crown in his pocket, and a fixed deter- 
mination to know the truth, sooner or later, about himself. 
At the same time he had a great fear of letting any one 
know the extent of the blanks in his memory. He thought 
that people might shut him up in a madhouse if he told 
them th^t he could not recollect his own name. A certain 
amount of intellectual force and knowledge remained to 
him. He could read, and understand what he read. But 
of his own history he had absolutely no idea ; and the only 
clue to it that he could find lay in those two names — 
Brooke and Kenjon. 

Could he discover anything about tne possessors of 
these names which would help him ? He entered a shop 
where a Post Office Directory was to be found, and looked 
at Maurice Kenyon’s name amongst the doctors. He 
found Mr. Kenyon’s private address j but as yet it told 
him nothing. Woburn Place? Well, of course he had 
heard of Woburn Place . it was no wonder that he should 
know it so well; but the name told him nothing more. 

He sat staring at it so long that the people of the shop 
grew impatient, and asked him to shut the book. He went 


218 


ROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


away, and wandered about the streets, vaguely seeking for 
he knew not what. And after a time he bought a news- 
paper. Here again he found the name that had attracted 
his attention — the name of Kenyon. ‘‘ Last appearance of 
Miss Kenyon at the Frivolity Theatre — this week only.’* 

‘‘Who’s Miss Ethel Kenyon?” he asked — drawing a 
bow at a venture — of his neighbor in the dingy little coffee- 
house into which he had turned. It was ten to one that 
the man would not know ; but he would ask. 

As it happened, the young nan did know. “ She’s an 
actress,” he said. ‘‘ I went to see her the other night. 
Pretty girl — going to get married and leave the stage. My 
brother’s a scene shifter at the Frivolity — knows all about 
her.” 

“ Who is she going to marry ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know — some idle young chap that wants 
her money, I believe. She ain’t the common sort of actress, 
you know. Bit of a swell, with sixty thousand pounds of 
her own.” 

“ Oh,” said his interlocutor, vaguelv. “ And — has she 
any relations ? ” 

“Well, that I can’t tell you. Stop a bit, though : I did 
hear tell of a brother — a doctor, I believe. But I couldn’t 
be sure of it.” 

“ Could you get to know if you wanted? ” 

The young fellow turned and surveyed his questioner 
with some doubt. “ Dare say I could if I chose,” he said. 
“ What do you want to know for, mate ? ” 

“ I’ve been away — out of England for a long time — and 
I think they’re people who used to know me,” said Francis 
Trent, improvising his story readily. “ I thought they 
could put me on the way of work if I could come across 
them ; but I don’t know if it’s the same.” 

“ Why don’t you go to see her to-night ? She’s worth a 
look : she’s a pretty little thing — but she don’t draw 
crowds : the gallery’s never full.” 

“ I think I’ll go to-night,” said Francis, rising suddenly 
from his seat. He fancied that the young man looked at 
him suspiciously. “ Yes, no doubt, I should know her if 
I saw her: I’ll go to-night.” 

He made his way hastily into the street, while his late 
companion sent a puzzled glance after him. “ Got a tile 
loose, that chap has,” he said to the girl at the counter as 
he also passed out. “ Or else he was a bit screwed.” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


^19 

So that night Francis Trent went to the Frivolity, and 
witnessed, from a lialf-empty gallery, a smart, sparkling 
little society play, in which Ethel Kenyon had elected to 
say farewell to her admirers. 

He saw her, but her face oroduced no impression upon 
his mind. 

It was not familiar to him, although her name was fami- 
liar enough. Those gleaming dark eyes in the saucy pi- 
quante face, the tiny graceful figure, the silvery accents of 
her voice, were perfectly strange to him. They suggested 
absolutely nothing. It was the name alone that he knew ; 
and he was sure that it was in some way connected with 
his own. 

Before the end of the play, he got up and went out. 
The lights of the theatre made him dizzy : his head ached 
from the hot atmosphere and from his own physical weak- 
ness. He was afraid that he should cry out or do some- 
thing strange which would make people look at him, if he 
sat there much longer. So he turned into a side street and 
leaned against a wall for a little time, until he felt cool and 
refreshed. The evening was warm, considering that the 
month was March, and the air that played upon his face 
was soft and balmy. When he had recovered himself a 
little, he noticed a group of young men lighting their cigar- 
ettes and loitering about a door in the vicinity. Presently 
he made out that this was the stage-door, and that these 
young men were waiting to see one of the actresses come 
out. By the fragments of their talk that floated to him on 
the still evening air in the quiet side street, Francis Trent 
gathered that they spoke a good deal of Ethel Kenyon. 

So this is the last we shall see of pretty little Ethel,’* 
he heard one man sav. ‘‘ Who’s the man she’s hooked, 
eh ? ” 

Nobody seemed to know. 

“ Why did she go on the boards at all, I wonder ? She’s 
got money, and belongs to a pre-eminently respectable 
family. Her brother’s a doctor.” 

‘‘ Stage-struck,” said another. ^‘She’ll give it up now, 
of course. Here’s her carriage. She’ll be here directly.” 

And the happy man at her heels,” I suppose, sneered 
the first speaker. They say she’s madly in love with him, 
and that he, of course, wants her money.” 

He’s a cad, I know that,” growled a younger man. 


220 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Impelled by an interest of which he himself did not 
know the source, Francis Trent had drawn nearer to the 
stage door as the young fellows spoke. He was quite close 
to it, when it opened at last and the pretty actress came 
forth. 

She was escorted by a train of admirers, rich and poor. 
Her maid was laden with wraps and bouquets. The man- 
ager and the actor who played the leading part were on 
either side of her, and Ethel was laughing the merry, un- 
affected laugh of a perfectly happy woman as she made her 
triumphal exit from the little theatre where she had achieved 
all her artistic success. Another kind of success, she 
thought, was in store for her now. She was to know an- 
other sort of happiness. And the whole world looked very 
bright to her, although there was one little cloud — no big- 
ger than a man’s hand, perhaps — which had already shown 
itself above the horizon, and might one day cloud the 
noontide of her love. 

Francis Trent was so absorbed in watching her lovely 
face, and in wondering why her name had seemed so fami- 
liar, that he paid scant attention to her followers. It was 
only as the carriage drove off that his eye was caught by 
the face of a man who sat beside her. A gleam from a gas- 
lamp had fallen full upon it, revealing the regular, passion- 
less features, the dark eyes and pale complexion of Ethel’s 
lover. And as soon as he saw that face, a great change 
came over the mental condition of Francis Trent. He stood 
for a moment as if paralyzed, his worn features strangely 
convulsed, a strange lurid light showed itself in his hag- 
gard eyes. Then he threw his arms wildly in the air, 
uttered a choked, gasping cry, and rushed madly and 
vainly after the retreating carriage, heedless of the shouts 
which the little crowd sent after him. 

“ He’s mad — he’ll never catch up that carriage ! What 
does he run after it for, the fool? ” said one of the men on 
the pavement. 

And indeed he soon relinquished the attempt, and sat 
down on a doorstep, panting and exhausted, with his face 
buried upon his arms. 

But he was not mad. He was sure of that now. It was 
only that he had — partially and feebly, but to some extent 
effectually — remembered what had happened to him in the 
dark dead Past. 


MROOKE^S DAUGHTER. 


221 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

DOUBT. 

It was a difficult matter for Maurice Kenyon so to word 
his report to Caspar Brooke as not to excite his dis- 
pleasure againt Lesley. He felt himself bound to respect 
Lesley's confidences — if such they might be called — 
respecting the promise which kept her from returning his 
love ; but he could not help a certain bitterness of tone in 
referring to his interview with her ; and his friend observed 
the bitterness. 

What reason did she give for refusing you ? ” he asked 
sharply. 

I suppose she does not care for me.’* 

There is something else — to judge from your look. 
Perhaps there is — somebody else?'* said Brooke. 

Well, I don’t know that I’m doing right in telling you 
— but — God help me 1 — I believe there is,” said Maurice, 
with a groan. 

“ She did not tell you who ? ” 

‘‘No.” 

Mr. Brooke knitted his brows. He was inclined to think 
that Oliver Trent had produced an impression on Lesley’s 
susceptible heart. He could not ask questions of any of 
the persons concerned ; but he had his suspicions, and 
they made him angry as well as anxious. 

He made it his business during the next day or two to 
find out whether Oliver had been to the house since the 
day when he had interrupted the interview ; but he could 
not learn that he had ventured there again. It was no use 
asking Dr. Sophy about Lesley’s comings and goings : it 
was almost impossible for him to question Lesley herself. 

“ What rubbish it all is — this love-making, marrying, 
and giving in marriage ! ” he said, at last, impatiently, to 
himself. “ I’ll think no more about these young folks’ 
affairs — let them make or mar their happiness in their own 
way. I’ll think of my work and nothing else — I’ve ne- 


222 


BKOOKE^S DAUGHTER. 


glected it a good deal of late, I fancy. I must make up for 
lost time now.” And sitting down at his table, he turned 
over the papers upon it, and took up a quill pen. But he 
did not begin to write for some minutes. He sat frowning 
at the paper, biting the feathers of his pen, drumming with 
his fingers on the table. And after a time he muttered to 
himself, If any man harms Lesley, I’ll wring his neck — 
that’s all ; ” which did not sound as though he were giving 
to his literary work all the attention that it required. 

As to Lesley, she would have given a great deal at that 
time for a counsellor of some kind. The old feeling of friend- 
lessness had come back to her. Her aunt was absorbed 
by her own affairs, her father looked at her with unquiet 
displeasure in his eyes. Oliver Trent had proved himself 
a false friend indeed. Ethel was a little reserved with her, 
and she had sent Maurice Kenyon away. There was 
nobody else to whom she could turn for comfort. True, 
she had made many acquaintances by this time : her father’s 
circle was a large one, and she knew more people now than 
she had ever spoken to in her quiet convent days. But 
these were all acquaintances — not friends. She could not 
speak to any one of these about Maurice Kenyon, her 
lover and her friend. Once or twice she thought vaguely 
of writing to her mother about him ; but she shrank from 
doing so without quite knowing why. The fact was, she 
knew her mother’s criticism beforehand : she expected to 
be reproached with having broken her compact in the spirit 
if not in the letter; and she did not know how to justify 
herself. Maurice had taken his dismissal as final, and she 
had not meant him to do so. Now, if ever, the girl wanted 
a friend who would either encourage her to explain her posi- 
tion to him, or would do it for her. Lady Alice would 
not fill this post efficiently. And Lesley, in her youthful 
shamefaced pride, felt that nothing would induce her to 
make her own explanation to Maurice. It would seem like 
asking him to ask her again to marry him — an insupport- 
able thought. 

So she went about the house pale and heavy-eyed, trying 
with all her might to throw herself into her father’s schemes 
for his club, writing a little now and then, occupying Iier- 
self feverishly with all the projects that came in her way, 
but bearing a sad heart about with her all the time. She 
was not outwardly depressed — her pride would not let her 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


223 


seem melancholy. She held her head high, and talked and 
laughed more than usual. But the want of color and bright- 
ness in her face and eye could not be controlled. 

“ You pale-faced wretch,” she said to herself one Satur- 
day evening, as she stood before her glass and surveyed the 
fair image that met her eye ; ‘‘ why cannot you look as 
usual It must be this black dress that makes me so color- 
less : I wish that I had a flower to wear with it.” 

Mr. Brooke and his sister were holding one of their fre- 
quent Saturday evening parties, when they were at home ” 
to a large number of guests. Lesley was just about to go 
downstairs. Her dress was black, for she was in mourning 
for her grandfather ; and it must be confessed that the 
sombre hue made her look very pale indeed. The wish 
for a flower was gratified, however, almost as soon as 
formed. Kingston entered her room at that moment carry- 
ing a bouquet of flowers, chiefly white, but with a scarlet 
blossom here and there, which would give exactly the 
touch of color that Lesley’s appearance required. 

“ These flowers have just come for you, ma’am,” King- 
ston said quietly. 

Her subdued voice, her pale face, and heavily shadowed 
eyes, did not make her a cheerful-looking messenger ; but 
Lesley, for the time being, thought of nothing but the 
flowers. 

‘‘ Where do they come from, Kingston ? ” she asked, 
eagerly. 

“ I was only to say one word, ma’am — that they came 
from over the way.” 

There was no want of color now in Lesley’s face. Her 
cheeks were rose-tinted, her eyes had grown strangely 
bright. Over the way.” Of course that meant Maurice. 
Did not he live over the way ? — and was there any one else 
at the Kenyons’ house who would send her such lovely 
flowers 

If he sent her flowers, she reflected, he could not have 
yet ceased to care for her, although she had behaved so 
badly to him — in his eyes, at least. The thought gave her 
courage and content. Perhaps he was coming that night 
— he had a standing invitation to all the Brookes’ evening 
parties — and when he came he would perhaps “ say some- 
thing ” to her, something which she could answer suitably, 
so as to make him understand, 


224 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


She did not know how pretty she looked as she stood 
looking down at her flowers, the color and smile and dimples 
coming and going in her fair young face in very unwonted 
confusion. But Mary Kingston noted every change of tint 
and expression, and was surprised. For the little mystery 
was quite plain to her. It was not Mr. Kenyon who sent 
the flowers at all. Mr. Kenyon was too busy a man to buy 
bouquets. It was Oliver Trent who had sent them, for 
Kingston had herself seen him carrrying the flowers and 
entrusting them to a commissionaire with a message for 
Miss Brooke. She believed, too, that Lesley knew from 
whom they came. But she was not sufficiently alert and 
interested just then to make these matters of great impor- 
tance to her. She did not think it worth her while to say 
how much she knew. With a short quick sigh she turned 
away, and expected to see her young mistress quit the 
room at once, still with that happy smile upon her face. 
But Lesley had heard the sigh. 

“ Oh, Kingston,*’ she said, laying her hand on the 
woman’s arm, ‘‘ I wish you would not sigh like that ! ” 

‘‘ I beg your pardon, ma’am ; I did not mean to annoy 
you.” 

‘‘ I don’t mean that : I mean it for your own sake. You 
seem so sad about something — you have been sad so long ! ” 

‘‘ I’ve had a sad life. Miss Lesley.” 

‘‘ But therd is surely some special sadness now ? ” 

Yes,” said the woman slowly. “Yes, that is true. I’ve 
— lost — a friend.” 

She put a strong emphasis on the word “ lost,” and 
paused before and after uttering it, as if it bore a peculiar 
meaning to her. But Lesley took the word in its ordinary 
sense. 

“ I am very sorry,” she said. “ It must be very terrible, 
I think, when one’s friends die.” 

She stood silent for a minute — a shadow from Kingston’s 
grief troubling the sweetness of her fair face. It was the 
maid who broke the silence. 

“ Excuse me, ma’am ; I oughtn’t to have troubled you 
with my affairs to-night, just when you’re enjoying yourself 
too. But it’s hard sometimes to keep quiet.” 

Moved by a sudden instinct of sympathy, Lesley turned 
and kissed the woman who served her, as if she had been 
a sister. It was in such ways that she showed her kinship 


BROOKE DAUGHTER. 


225 


with the man who had written “ The Unexplored. Lady 
Alice, in spite of all her kindness of heart, would never 
have thought of kissing her ladies’ maid. 

‘‘ Don’t grieve — don’t be sorrowful,” said Lesley. “ Per- 
haps things will mend by and by.” 

Ah, my dear,” said Kingston, forgetting her position,” 
as Lady Alice would have said, while that young, soft kiss 
was warm upon her cheek, ‘‘ the dead don’t come back.” 

And when Lesley had gone downstairs, with the white 
and scarlet bouquet in her hand, Mary Kingston sat down 
and wept bitterly. 

It was not the first lime that Lesley had spoken words of 
consolation to her ; but on this occasion her gentleness 
had gone home to Mary Kingston’s heart as it had never 
done before. After weeping for herself for a time, she fell 
to weeping for Lesley too, for it seemed inevitable to her 
that Lesley should suffer before very long. She believed 
that Lesley was in love with Oliver, and that for this reason 
only had she refused Maurice Kenyon, which shows that 
Lesley had kept her own secret very well. 

‘‘ I’d do anything to keep her from harm,” said Mary 
Kingston, with a passionate rush of gratitude towards the 
girl for her kindly words and ways. “ Francis Trent 
brough me grief enough, God knows ; and if she’s going 
to throw herself away on Oliver, she’ll have her heart broke 
sooner than mine. For I’ve been used to sorrow all my 
days ; and she — poor, pretty lamb — she don’t know what 
it means. And Miss Brooke all taken up with her medi- 
cine-fads, and Mr. Brooke only a man^ after all, in spite of 
his goodness ; and my lady, her mother, far away and 
never coming near her — if anybody was friendless and for- 
lorn, it’s Miss Lesley. Only me between her and her ruin, 
maybe ! But I’ll prevent it,” said the woman, rising to 
her feet with a strange look of exaltation in her sunken 
eyes : I’ll guard her from Oliver Trent as I couldn’t guard 
my own sister, poor lass ! I’ll see that she does not come 
to any harm, and if he means ill by her I’ll shame him be- 
fore all the world, even though I break more hearts than 
one by it.” 

And then she roused herself from her reverie, and went 
downstairs, where she knew that her presence was required 
in the tea-room. Scarcely had she entered it, when she 
made a short pause and gave a slightly perceptible start. 

15 


226 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


For there stood Ethel Kenyon, with Oliver Trent in atten- 
dance. She had not thought that he would come to the 
house ; a rumor had gone about that he had quarreled with 
Mr. Brooke ; yet there he was, smiling, bland, irreproach- 
able as ever, with quite the look of one who had the right 
to be present. He was holding Ethel’s fan and gloves as 
she drank a cup of tea, and seemed to be paying her every 
attention in his power. Ethel, in the daintiest of costumes, 
was laughing and talking to him as they stood together. 
She was quite unconscious of any reason for his possible 
absence. Mary Kingston gave them a keen glance as she 
went by, and decided in her own mind that there was more 
in the situation than as yet she had understood. 

Oliver was playing a bold game. His marriage was 
fixed for the following Tuesday. From Mr. Brooke’s atti- 
tude in general towards the Kenyons, he felt sure that 
Caspar would not place them in any painful or perplexing 
situation. He would not, for instance, refuse to welcome 
Oliver to his house again, if Oliver went in Ethel’s com- 
pany. Accordingly, the young man put his pride and his 
delicacy (if he had either — which is doubtful) in his 
pocket, and went with his affianced wife to Mr. Brooke’s 
Saturday evening party. 

‘‘ For I will see Lesley again,” he said to himself, “and 
if I do not go to-night I may not have the opportunity. If 
she would relent, I would not mind throwing Ethel over — 
I could do it so easily now that Francis has disap])eared. 
But I would give up Ethel’s twenty thousand, if Lesley 
would go with me instead ! ” 

Little did he guess that only on the previous night had 
he been recognized and remembered by that missing bro- 
ther, whose tottering brain was inflamed almost to madness 
by a conviction of deliberate wrong ; or that this brother 
was even now upon his track, ready to demand the justice 
that he thought had been denied him, and to punish the 
man who had brought him to this evil pass ! Wild and 
mad as were the imaginings of Francis Trent’s bewildered 
mind, they boded ill to his brother Oliver whenever the two 
should meet. 

Meanwhile, Ethel’s lover, with a white flower in his but- 
ton-hole, occupied the whole evening in leaning idly against 
a wall, and feasting his eyes on the fair face and form — not 
of his betrothed, but — of Lesley Brooke. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


227 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 
TN MR. Brooke’s study. 

Caspar Brooke’s dingy drawing-room looked cheerful 
enough that night, filled by a crowd of men and women, 
and animated by the buzz of constant talk and movement. 
It was a distinguishing characteristic of his parties that 
they were composed more of men than of women ; and the 
guests were often men or women who had done something 
in the world, and were known for some special excellence 
in their work. Lesley generally enjoyed these gatherings 
very much. The visitors were shabby, unfashionable peo- 
ple sometimes : they had eccentricities of dress and manner ; 
but they were always interesting in Lesley’s eyes. Literary 
men, professors, politicians, travelers, philanthropists, fad- 
dists — these were the folk that mostly frequented Caspar 
Brooke’s parties. Neither artists nor musicians were largely 
represented : the flow of talk was rather political and 
literary than artistic ; and on the whole there were more 
elderly people than young ones. As a rule, Oliver Trent 
was not disposed to frequent these assemblies : he shrugged 
his shoulders at them and called them slow,” but on this 
occasion he was only too glad to find admittance. It was 
at least a good opportunity for watching Lesley, as she 
passed from one group to another, doing the duties of 
assistant-hostess with grace and tact, giving a smile to one, 
a word to another, entering into low-toned conversation, 
which brightened her eyes and flushed her fair cheek, with 
another. Oliver thought her perfection. Beside her stately 
proportions, Ethel seemed to him ridiculously tiny and 
insignificant, and her sparkling prettiness was altogether 
eclipsed by Lesley’s calmer beauty. He was not in an 
amiable mood. He had steeled himself against the dic- 
tates of his own taste and conscience, to encounter Caspar 
Brooke’s cold stare and freezing word of conventional wel- 
come, because he longed so intensely for a last word with 
Lesley ; but he was now almost sorry that he had come. 


228 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Lesley seemed utterly indifferent to his presence. She cer- 
tainly carried his flowers in her hand, but she did not 
glance his way. On the contrary, she anxiously watched 
the door from time to time, as if she awaited the coming of 
some one who was slow to make his appearance. Who 
could the person be for whom she looked Oliver asked 
himself jealously. He had not the slightest suspicion that 
she was watching for Maurice Kenyon. And Maurice 
Kenyon did not come. 

It was his absence that, as the evening wore on, made 
the color slip from Lesley’s cheeks and robbed her eyes of 
their first brightness. A certain listlessness came over her. 
And Oliver, watching from his corner, exulted in his heart, 
for he thought to himself — 

“ It is for me she is looking sad ; and if she will but yield 
her will to mine, I will win and wear her yet, in spite of all 
who would say me nay.” 

It was a veritable love-madness, such as had not come 
upon him since the days of his youth. He had had a fairly 
wide experience of love-making ; but never had he been so 
completely mastered by his passion as he was now. The 
consideration that had once been so potent with him — love 
of ease, money, and position — seemed all to have vanished 
away. What mattered it that to abandon Ethel Kenyon 
at the last moment would mean disgrace and perhaps even 
beggary? He had no care left for thoughts like these. If 
Lesley would acknowledge her love for him, he was ready 
to throw all other considerations to the winds. 

Sing something, Lesley,” her father said to her when 
the evening was well advanced. ‘‘ You have your music 
here ? ” 

Oh; yes, Lesley had her music here. But she glanced a 
little nervously in Oliver’s direction. I wonder if Ethel 
would accompany me,” she said. She shrank nervously 
from the thought of Oliver’s accompaniments. 

But Oliver was too quick for her. He moved forward 
to the piano as soon as he saw Caspar Brooke’s eye upon 
it. And with his hand on the key-board, he addressed 
himself suavely to Lesley. 

‘‘ You are going to sing, I hope? May I not have the 
pleasure of accompanying you ? ” 

Lesley could not say him nay, but she also could not 
help a glance, half of alarm, half of appeal, towards her 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


229 


father. Mr. Brooke’s face wore an expression which was 
not often seen upon it at a social gathering. It was dis- 
tinctly stormy — there was a frown upon the brow, and an 
ominous setting of the lips which more than one person in 
the room remarked. How savage Brooke looks ! ” one 
guest murmured into another’s ear. ‘‘ Isnh he friendly with 
'i'rent?” And the words were remembered in after days. 

But nothing could be said or done to hinder Oliver from 
taking his place at the piano, for Lesley did not openly 
object, and her father could not interfere between her and 
his own guest. So Lesley sang, and did not sing so well 
as usual, for her heart failed her a little, partly through 
vexation and partly through disappointment at Maurice 
Kenyon’s disappearance, but she gave pleasure to her 
hearers, in spite of what seemed to herself a comparative 
failure, and when she had finished her song, she was be- 
sieged by requests that she would sing once more. 

“ Sing ^ Thine is my heart,’ ” Oliver’s soft voice mur- 
mured in her ear. 

“ I have not that song here,” said Lesley, quietly. She 
was not very much discomposed now, but she did not want 
to encourage his attention. She rose from the music-stool. 

My music is downstairs,” she said. I must go and 
fetch it — I have a new song that Ethel has promised to 
play for me.” 

Oliver bit his lips and stood back as Lesley escaped by 
the door of the front drawing-room. Mr. Brooke’s eye 
was upon him, and he could not therefore follow her ; but 
he made his way into the library through the folding doors, 
and there a new mode of attack became visible to him. 
By the library door he gained the landing ; and then he 
softly descended the stairs, which were now almost deserted, 
for the guests had crowded into the drawing-room, first to 
hear Lesley’s song and then to listen to a recitation by 
•Ethel Kenyon. But where had Lesley gone ? 

A subtle instinct told him that she had hidden herself for 
a moment — and told him also where to find her. The 
lights were burning low in her father’s study, which had 
been set to rights a little, in order to serve as a room where 
people could lounge and talk if they wanted to escape the 
din of conversation in the larger rooms. He looked in, 
and at first thought it empty. But the movement of a cur- 
tain revealed some one’s presence ; and as his eyes became 


230 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


accustomed to the dimmer light, he saw that it was Lesley. 
She was standing between the fireplace and curtained win- 
dow, and her hand was on the mantelpiece. 

She started when she saw him in the doorway. It was 
her start that betrayed her. He came forward and shut 
the door behind him — Lesley fancied that she heard the 
click of the key in the lock. She tried to carry matters 
with a high hand. 

I am afraid I cannot find my music here,’^ she said, 
“ so please do not shut the door, Mr. Trent. There is little 
enough light as it is,” 

She walked forward, but he had planted himself squarely 
between her and the door. She could not pass. 

‘‘ Mr. Trent she began. 

Wait ! don’t speak,” he said, in a voice so hoarse and 
stifled that she could hardly recognize it as his own. I 
must have a word with you — forgive me — I won’t detain 
you long ” 

“ Excuse me, I must go back to the drawing-room.” 

Lesley spoke civilly but coldly, though some sort of fear 
of him passed shiveringly through her frame. 

You shall not go yet : you shall listen to what I have 
to say.” 

‘‘ Mr. Trent ! ” 

Yes, it is all very well to exclaim ! You know what I 
mean, and what I want. I had not time to speak the 
other night; but I will speak now. Lesley, I love you! 


‘‘ Mr. Trent, Ethel is upstairs. Have you forgotten her ? 
Let me pass.” 

I have not forgotten her : I remember her only too 
well. She is the burden, the incubus of my life. Oh, I 
know all that you can tell me about her : I know her 
beauty, her gifts, her virtues ; but all that does not charm 
me. You, you and no other, are the woman that I love ; 
and, beside you, Ethel is nothing to me at all.” 

“You might at least remember your duty to her,’* said 
Lesley, with severity. “ You have won her heart, and you 
are about to vow to make her happy. I cannot understand 
how you can be so false to her.” 

“ If I am false to her,” said Oliver, pleadingly, “ I am 
true to the dictates of my own heart. Hear me, Lesley — 
pity me ! I have promised to marry a woman whom I do 


JSROOKE^S DAUGHTER. 


231 


not love. I acknowledge it frankly. I shall never make 
her happy — strive as I may, her nature will never assimi- 
late with mine. She will go through life a disappointed 
woman ; while, if I set her free, she will find some man 
whom she loves and will be happy with him. You may as 
well confess that this is true. You may as well acknow- 
ledge that her nature is too light, too trivial to be rent 
asunder by any falsity of mine. Ethel will never break her 
heart ; but you might break yours, Lesley — and I — I also 
’ — have a heart to break/^ 

Lesley smiled scornfully. Yours will not break very 
easily,^’ she said, and I can answer for mine.’^ 

‘‘ You are strong,’' he said, using the formula by which 
men know how to soften women’s hearts, stronger than 
I am. Be merciful, Lesley ! I am very weak, I know ; 
but weakness means suffering. Can you not pity me, when 
you think that my weakness and my suffering come from 
love of you ? ” 

I am very sorry, Mr. Trent, but I really cannot help it. 
It is your own fault — not mine,” said Lesley, a little hotly. 

I never thought of such a thing.” 

“ No, you were as innocent and as good as you always 
are,” he broke in, ‘‘and you did not know what you were 
doing when you led me on with those sweet looks and sweet 
words of yours. I can believe that. But you did the 
mischief, Lesley, without meaning it ; and you must not 
refuse to make amends. You made me think you loved 
me.” 

“ Oh, no, no,” said Lesley, her face aflame with outraged 
modesty. “ I never made you think so ! You were mis- 
taken — that is all ! ” 

“ You made me think you loved me,” Oliver repeated, 
doggedly, and you owe me amends. To say the very 
least, you have given me great pain : you have made me the 
most miserable of men, and wrecked all chance of happi- 
ness between Ethel and myself — have you no heart that 
you can refuse to repair a little of the harm that you have 
done? You are a cruel woman — I could almost say a 
wicked woman : hard, false, and cowardly ; and I wish my 
words could blight your life as your coquetry has blighted 
mine.” 

Lesley trembled. No woman could listen to such words 
unmoved, when her armor of incredulity fell from her as 
Lesley’s armor had fallen. Hitherto she had felt a scbrn- 


232 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


ful disbelief in the reality of Oliver's love for her. But now 
that disbelief had gone. There was a ring of passionate 
feeling in Oliver’s tones which could not be simulated. The 
coldness, the artificiality of the man had disappeared : his 
passion for Lesley had taken possession of him, and stirred 
his nature to the very depths. 

Listen, Lesley,” he said, in a low, strained voice, which 
shook and vibrated with the intensity of his emotion, ‘‘ don’t 
let me feel this. Don’t let me feel that you have merely 
played with me, and are ready to cast me off like an old 
shoe when you are tired. Other women do that sort of 
thing ; but not you, my darling ! — not you — don’t let me 
think it of you. Forgive me the harsh things I said, and 
help me — help me — to forget them.” 

He had grasped the back of a chair with both hands, and 
was kneeling with one knee on the seat ? he now stretched 
out his hands to her, and came forward as if to take her in 
his arms. But Lesley drew back. 

‘‘ I am very sorry,” she said, but I cannot help it. I 
did not mean to be unkind.” 

‘‘ If you are really sorry for me,” he said, still in the 
deep-shaken voice which moved her to so uneasy a sense 
of pain and wrong-doing, you will do all you can for me. 
You will help me to begin a new life. I love you so much 
that I am sure I could teach you to love me. I am certain 
of it, Lesley — dearest — let me try ! ” 

Did she falter for a moment ? There flashed over her 
the remembrance of Maurice’s anger, of his continued 
absence, of the probability that he would never come back 
to her ; and the dream of a tender love that could envelop 
the rest of her lonely life assailed her like a temptation. 
She hesitated, and in that moment’s pause Oliver drew 
nearer to her side. 

‘‘ Kiss me, Lesley ! ” he whispered, and his head bent 
over hers, his lips almost touched her own. 

Then came the reaction — the awakening. 

‘‘ Oh, no, no ! Do not touch me. Do not come near 
me. I do not love you. And if I did ” — said Lesley, 
almost violently — if I loved you more than all the world, 
do you think that I would betray Ethel, my friend ? that I 
would be so false to her — and to myself? ” 

‘‘ Then you do love me ? ” he murmured, undisturbed by 
her vehemence, which he did not think boded ill for his 
chances, after all. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


233 


No, I do notT 

You are mistaken. ' Kiss me once, Lesley, and you will 
know. You will feel your love then/’ 

You insult me, Mr. Trent. Love you ? Come one step 
nearer and I shall hate you. Oh ! ” she said, recoiling, as 
a gleam from the lamp revealed to her the wild expression 
in his eyes, the tension of his white lips and nostrils, the 
strange transformation in those usually impassive features 
which revealed the brutal nature below the polished sur- 
face of the man, “ I hate you now ! ” 

She was close to the wall, and her head came in sudden 
contact with the old-fashioned bell-rope. She seized it 
firmly. 

Open the door,” she said, or I shall ring this bell 
and send for my father. He will know what to do.” 

Oliver gazed at her for a minute or two, then, with a 
smothered oath upon his lips, he turned slowly to the door 
and opened it. Before leaving the room, however, he said, 
in a voice half-stifled by impotent passion — 

‘‘ Is this really your last word? ” 

The last I shall ever speak to you,” said Lesley, reso- 
lutely. 

Then he went out, seizing his hat as he passed through 
the hall and made his way into the street. He did not 
notice, as he retired, that a woman’s figure was only half- 
concealed behind the curtains that screened a door in the 
study, and that his interview with Lesley must therefore 
have had an unseen auditor. He forgot that Ethel and 
Rosalind waited for him above. He was mad with rage ; 
deaf to all voices saving those of passion : blind to all 
sights save the visions that floated maddeningly before his 
eyes. 

Mad, blind, deaf to reason as he was, he was obliged to 
come back to earth and its realities before very long. For 
he was stopped in the streets by rough hands : a hoarse, 
passionate voice uttered threats and curses in his ear ; and 
he found himself face to face with his long- vanished and 
half-forgotten brother, Francis Trent. 


234 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

BROTHERS. 

‘‘ What do you want with me ? ” said Oliver trying to 
shake off the rude grasp. 

‘‘ I want you — you,” gasped the man. He was evidently 
much excited, and his breath came in hard, quick pants. 

Have you forgotten your own brother? ” 

The two paused for an instant under a gas lamp. Oliver 
looked into Francis Trent’s drawn, livid face — into the 
wild, bloodshot eyes, and for an instant recoiled. It struck 
him that the face was that of a madman. But it was, 
nevertheless, the face of his brother, and after that moment- 
ary pause he recovered himself and laughed slightly. 

Forgotten you ? I’m not very likely to forget you, my 
boy. Well, what do you want ? ” 

‘‘ I want that two thousand pounds.” 

His hand still clutched Oliver’s arm, and the grasp was 
becoming unpleasant. 

Can you not take your hand off my arm ? ” said the 
younger man, coolly. “ I’m not going to run away. Apro- 
pos, what have you been doing with yourself all these 
weeks ! I thought you had given us the slip altogether.” 

I want my money,” said Francis, doggedly. 

Oliver looked at him curiously. What did this persist- 
ence mean ? What money was he thinking about ? 

“ Your money ? ” he repeated. 

Yes, my money — the money you ought to have given 
me by this time — where is it ? ” 

You mean the sum I promised you on my wedding- 
day ? ” ^ 

Francis nodded, with a rather confused look upon his 
face. 

‘‘ My wedding-day has not occurred yet,” said Oliver, 
lightly. “ Upon my word, I doubt whether it ever will 
occur. Don’t alarm yourself, Francis. I shall get the 
money for you before long — I’ve not forgotten it,” 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


235 

I want it now. Two thousand pounds,” said Francis, 
thickly. 

‘‘ Are you drunk, man ! Do you think I carry two 
thousand pounds about with me in my pocket ? Go home 
— I’ll see you again when you are sober.” 

I have touched nothing but water to-day,” said his 
brother. I swear it — so help me, God ! I know what 
I’m about. And I know you. I know you for the vilest 
cheat and trickster that ever walked the earth. I’ve been 
in hospital — I don’t know how long. I know that you 
would cheat me if you could. You were to pay me within 
six months — and it’s over six months now.” 

I tell you I’m not married. I was to pay you on my 
wedding-day.” 

“ You were to pay me within six months. Have you 
opened a bank account for me and paid in the two thou- 
sand pounds ? ” 

‘‘Are you mad, Francis?” 

“Mad? — I may well be mad after all you have made me 
suffer. I tell you I want money — money — money — I want 
two thousand pounds.” 

His voice rose almost to a shriek, and the sound rever- 
berated along the quiet street with startling effect. Oliver 
shrank into himself a little, and gave a hurried glance 
around him. They were still in Upper Woburn Place, and 
he was afraid that the noise should excite remark. It was 
plain to him that ’Francis was either drunk or out of his 
mind, and he therefore concentrated his attention on 
getting quietly away from him, or leading him to some more 
secluded spot. 

“ Look here,” he said, in a conciliatory tone. “ You shall 
have your money if you’ll be quiet and come away with me. 
Come to my house and I’ll explain things to you. You’ve 
not seen Rosalind fora long time, have you? Come in and 
talk things over.” 

“ Oh, you want to trap me, do you ? ” said Francis, 
sullenly. “No, I’ll not come to your house. Go in and 
fetch the money out to me, or I’ll make you repent it.” 

Oliver was almost at his wit’s end. 

“ All right,” he said, soothingly. “ I will fetch it. I can 
give you a cheque, you know. But don’t you want a 
little loose change to go on with ? Take these.” 

He held out a handful of gold and silver. Francis looked 
at it with covetous eyes for a minute or two, then thrust 


236 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


his brother’s hand aside with a jerk which almost sent the 
coins into the road. 

‘‘ I want justice, not charity,” he said. I want the 
money you promised me.” 

Oliver shrugged his shoulders, and slowly returned the 
money to his pocket. 

“ I am more than ever convinced that you are either 
mad or drunk, my boy,” he said. ‘^You should never 
refuse ten pounds when you can get it, and it’s not a 
thing that 1 should fancy you have often done before. 
However, as you choose.” 

He walked onward, and Francis walked, heavily and 
unsteadily, at his side, muttering to himself as he went. 
Oliver glanced curiously at him from time to time. 

I wonder what has happened to him,” he said to him- 
self. It’s not safe to question, but I should like to know. 
Is it drink ? or is it brain disease ? One thing or the 
other it must be. He does not look as if he would live to 
spend the two thousand pounds — if ever he gets it. I 
wonder if I could contrive to stave off the payment ” 

And then he fell into a gloomy calculation of ways and 
means, possibilities and chances, which lasted until the 
house in Russell Square was reached. Here the brothers 
paused, and Oliver looked keenly into his companion’s face, 
noting that a somewhat remarkable change had passed 
over it. Instead of being flushed and swollen, as if from 
drinking, it had become very pale. His eyes seemed on 
the point of closing, and he wavered unsteadily in his 
walk. Oliver had to put out his hand to save him from 
falling, and to help him to the steps, where he collapsed 
into a sitting posture, with his head against the railings. 
He seemed to be stupefied, if not asleep. 

Dead drunk,” said Oliver to himself. The danger’s 
over for to-night, at any rate. Now, what shall I do with 
him ? I can’t get him into the house and lock him into a 
room — that would make talk. I think I had better leave 
him to the tender mercies of the next policeman ; if he gets 
run in for being drunk and incapable, so much the better 
for me.” 

He took out his latch key and let himself into the house, 
closing the door softly behind him, so as not to awaken 
the half-sleeping wretch upon the steps. Then he ascend- 
ed the stairs — still softly, as if he thought that he was not 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


237 


yet out of danger of awaking him — and locked himself into 
his own room. Then he drew a long breath, and stood 
motionless for a moment, with bent brows and downcast 
eyes. “ There will be no end to this,” he said to himself, 
‘‘ until Francis is shipped off to America or landed safely in 
a madhouse. One seems to me about as likely as another. I 
wonder whether he was drunk to-night, or insane? Drunk, 
I think : insanity ” — with a sinister smile — “ would be too 
great a stroke of luck for me ! ’’ 

But it was perfectly true, as Francis had said, that no 
drop of intoxicating liquor had passed his lips that day. 
He was suffering from brain disease, as Oliver had half 
suspected, although not to such an extent that he could 
actually be called insane. A certain form of mania was 
gradually taking possession of his mind. He was con- 
vinced that he had been robbed by his brother of much 
that was his due ; and that Oliver was even now withhold- 
ing money that was his. This fancy had its foundation in 
fact, for Oliver had wronged him more than once, and was 
ready to wrong him again should a suitable opportunity 
occur ; but the notion that at present occupied his mind, 
respecting the payment of the two thousand pounds, was 
largely a figment of his disordered brain. Oliver had cer- 
tainly questioned within himself whether he should be 
called upon to pay this sum, and as Francis seemed to 
have comi)letely disappeared, he began to think that he 
might evade his promise to do so ; but he had not as yet 
sought to free himself from the necessity of paying it. 
Francis’ own words and demeanor suggested this idea 
for tlie first time to his mind. Was it possible, he asked 
himself, to prove that Francis was insane — clap him into 
a lunatic asylum — get rid of him forever without hush- 
money ? True, there was his wife, Mary, to be silenced ; 
but she had no influence and no friends. Power is 
always in the hands of those who have most money,’^ 
Oliver said to himself, as he reviewed the situation, after 
leaving Francis on the door step. I have more money 
than Francis, certainly : I ought to be able to control his 
fate a little — and my own.” 

But Oliver, astute as he thought himself, was occasion- 
ally mistaken in his conclusions. Francis Trent, as we 
have said, was not intoxicated ; and when he had dozed 
quietly for a few moments on the door-step, he came some- 


238 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


what to himself, as he usually did after these fits of frenzy. 
He felt dazed and bewildered, but he was no longer furious. 
He could not remember very well what he had said to 
Oliver, or what Oliver had said to him. But he knew where 
he was, and that in this region— between Russell Square 
and St. Pancras Church — he should find his truest friends 
and perhaps also his bitterest foes. 

He roused himself, stretched his cramped limbs, and 
turned back to wander towards Upper Woburn Place, hard- 
ly knowing, however, why he bent his steps in that direction. 
Instinct, not memory or reflection, guided him, and when he 
halted, he leaned against the railings of the house from 
which he had seen Oliver come forth, without realizing 
for one moment that it was the house in which his faithful 
and half-forgotten Mary was to be found. 

The door opened, as he waited, and some of the guests 
came out. Two or three carriages drove up: there was a 
call for a hansom, a whistle, and an answering shout. Fran- 
cis Trent watched the proceedings with a sort of stupid 
attention. They reminded him of the previous night when 
he had seen Ethel Kenyon coming out of the theatre after 
her farewell performance. But on that occasion he had 
passed unnoticed and unrecognized. This was not now to 
be the case. 

Suddenly a woman on the threshold of Mr. Brooke’s house 
caught sight of the weary, shabby figure leaning against the 
railings. Francis heard a little gasp, a little cry, and felt 
a hand upon his own. “ Francis ! is it you? have you really 
come back ? ” It was Mary Kingston who looked him in 
the face. 

He returned the gaze with lack-lustre, unseeing eyes. 
When the fever-fit of rage left him, he was still subject to 
odd lapses of memory. One of these had assailed him 
now. He did not recognize his wife in the very least. 

‘‘I — I don’t know you,” he said. “Go away, woman. 
Pm not doing any harm.” 

There is nothing so piteous as the absence of recognition 
of the patient’s best friends in cases of brain-disease. Francis 
Trent’s condition sent a stab of pain to Mary’s innermost 
heart. She forgot where she was — she forgot her duties as 
doorkeeper ; she remembered only that she loved this man, 
and that he had forgotten her. She cried aloud 

“ Franci.s, ] am your wife.” 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER. 


239 


I have no wife/^ said the distraught man, looking list- 
lessly beyond her. I am here to see Oliver — he is to 
give me some money.” 

Don’t you remember Mary, Francis ? Look at me — 
look at me.” 

“ Mary ? ” he said, doubtfully. Oh, yes, I remember 
Mary. But you are not Mary, are you ? ” 

Yes, indeed I am. Where have you been all this time? 
Oh, my poor dear, you can’t tell me i You are ill, Frapcis. 
Let me take care of you. Can you tell me where you 
live ? ” 

But he could not reply. His head drooped upon his 
breast: he looked as if he neither saw nor heard. What 
was she to do ? 

Of one thing Mary was certain. Now that she had found 
her husband, she , was not going to lose sight of him again. 

She would go with him whithersoever he went, unless he 
repelled her by force. She gave one regretful thought to 
her young mistress, and to a certain project which she had 
determined to put into effect that night, and then she 
thought of the Brookes no more. She must leave them, and 
follow her husband’s fortunes. There was no other way 
for her. 

Fortunately she had money in her pocket. She had also 
thrown a shawl across her arm before she came to the door. 
The shawl belonged to Miss Brooke, and had been offered to 
one of the guests as a loan ; but Mary had forgotten all about 
the guests, and appropriated the shawl, with the cool reso- 
lution which characterized her in cases of emergency. Ne- 
cessity — especially the necessity entailed by love — knows 
no law. At that moment she knew no law but that of her 
repressed and stunted, but always abiding, affection for the 
husband who had burdened her life for many weary years 
with toil and anxiety and care. For him she would do any- 
thing — throw up all friendships, sacrifice her future, her 
character, and, if need be, her life. 

She wrapped the shawl round her head, and put her arm 
through her husband’s, without once looking back. 

‘‘ Come, Francis,” she said, quietly, ‘‘ show me where 
you live now. We will go honie.” 

She led him unresistingly away. For a little while he 
walked as if in a dream ; but by and by his movements 
became more assured, and he turned so decidedly in one 


240 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


direction that she saw he knew his way and was pursuing 
it. She said nothing, but kept close to his side, with her 
hand resting lightly on his arm. She was not mistaken in 
her expectations. Francis went straight to the wretched 
lodging in which he had slept for the past few nights, and 
Mary at once assumed the management of his affairs. 

She was rewarded — as she thought, poor soul I — for her 
efforts. When she had lighted a fire and a candle, and 
prepared some sort of frugal meal for the man she loved, 
he lifted up his face and looked at her with a gleam of 
returning memory and intelligence in his haggard eyes. 

Mary,^^ he said, in a bewildered tone, Mary — my 
wife ? How did you come here, Mary ? How did you find 
me out ? '* 

Are you glad to see me, dear ? said Mary. 

“Yes — yes, I am. Everything will be right now. You’ll 
manage things for me.” 

It was an acknowledgment of the power of her affection 
which more than recompensed her for the trouble of the 
last few months. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


241 


CHAPTER XXX. 

MRS. TRENT'S STORY. 

‘‘ I NEVER heard of such an extraordinary thing," said Les- 
ley. 

Then that shows how little you know of the world," 
said Doctor Sophy, amicably. Pve heard of a hundred 
cases of the kind." 

‘‘ Well, there are some elements of oddity in this case," 
remarked Caspar Brooke, striking in with unexpected 
readiness to defend his daughter’s views. Kingston was 
not a giddy young girl, who would go off with any man 
who made love to her. Indeed, I can’t quite fancy any 
man making love to her at all. She was remarkably plain, 
poor woman." 

She had beautiful eyes," said Lesley. “ And she was 
so nice and quiet and kind. And I really thought that slie 
was — fond of me." She paused before she uttered the last 
three words, being a little afraid that they would be thought 
sentimental. And indeed Miss Brooke did give a contemp- 
tuous snort, but Caspar smiled kindly, and patted his 
daughter’s hand. 

Don’t take it to heart," he said. ‘ Fondness * is a 
very indeterminate term, and one that you must not scru- 
tinize too closely. This little black beast, for instance ’’ — 
caressing, as he spoke, the head of the ebony-hued cat 
which sat upon the arm of his chair — ‘‘ which I picked up 
half-starving in the street when it was a kitten, is fond of 
me because I feed it : but .suppose that I were too poor to 
give it milk and chicken-bones, do you think it would retain 
any affection for me ? A sublimated cupboard-love is all 
that we can expect now-a-days from cats — and servants." 

‘‘ When you can write as you do about love,’^ said Lesley, 
who was coming to know her father well enough to tease 
him now and then, I wonder that you dare venture to 
express yourself in this cold-blooded way in our hear- 
ing 1" 


16 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


242 

Ah, but, my dear, I was not talking about love,^^ said 
Caspar, lightly. ‘‘ I was talking about ‘ fondness,’ which 
is a very different matter. You did not say that your maid, 
Kingston, loved yow — I suppose she was hardly likely to go 
that length — you said that she was fond of you. Very 
probably. But fondness has its limits.” 

Lesley smiled in reply, and did not utter the thouglit 
that occurred to her. What she really believed was that 
Kingston was not only fond ” of her, after the instinctive 
fashion of a dumb creature that one feeds, but loved her, 
as one woman loves another. Although her democratic 
feelings came to her through her father’s teaching, or by 
inheritance from him, she did not quite like to say this to 
him : he might think it foolish to believe that a servant 
whom she had not known for very many weeks actually 
loved her ; and yet she had the conviction that Kingston’s 
attachment was deeper and more sincere than that of many 
a woman who claimed to be her friend. And she was both 
grieved and puzzled by Kingston’s disappearance. 

For this was on Monday morning, and the woman had 
not come back to Mr. Brooke’s. Great had been the as- 
tonishment of every one in the house when it was found 
that the quiet, well-spoken, well-behaved Mary Kingston, 
who had hitherto proved herself so trustworthy and so con- 
scientious, had gone away — disappeared utterly and en- 
tirely, without leaving a word of explanation behind. She 
had last been seen on the pavement, shortly before mid- 
night, assisting a lady to get into a hansom. Nobody had 
seen her re-enter the house. It seemed as if she had been 
spirited away. She had gone without a bonnet or shawl, 
in her plain black dress and white cap and apron, as if she 
meant to return in a minute or two, and she had not 
appeared again. The shawl that she had taken with her 
was not missed, for Miss Brooke continued for some time 
under the impression that it had been lent to one of the 
visitors. 

The conversation recorded above took place at Mr. 
Brooke’s luncheon-table. It was not often that he was 
present at this meal, but on this occasion he had joined his 
sister and daughter, and questioned then with considerable 
interest about Kingston. After lunch, he put his hand 
gently on Lesley’s arm. Just as she was leaving the dining- 
room, and said, in a tone where sympathy was veiled with 
banter — 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


243 


Never mind, my dear. AVe will get you another maid, 
who will be less fond of you, and then perhaps she will 
stay.” 

I don’t want another maid, thank you, papa. And, 
indeed, I do think Kingston was fond of me,” said Lesley 
earnestly. 

Mr. Brooke shrugged his shoulders. Verily,” he said, 

‘‘ the credulity of some women ” 

But it isn’t credulity,” said Lesley, with something 
between a smile and a sigh, ‘‘it is faith. And I can’t 
altogether disbelieve in poor Kingston — even now.” 

Mr. Brooke shook his head, but made no rejoinder. 
Privately he thought Lesley foolishly mistaken, but believed 
that time would do its usual office in correcting the mis- 
takes of the young. 

His own incredulity received a considerable shock some- 
what later in the day. About four o’clock a knock came 
to his study, and the knock was followed by the appearance 
of the sour-visaged Sarali. 

“ If you please, sir, there’s that woman herself wants to 
see you.” 

“ What woman, Sarah ? ” said Caspar, carelessly. He 
was writing and smoking, and did not look up from his 
work. 

‘^The woman, Kingston, that ran away,” said Sarah, in- 
dignantly. “ I nearly shut the door in her face, sir, I 
did.” 

“ That wouldn’t have been legal,” said Mr. Brooke. 
“ Why doesn’t she see Miss Brooke or Miss Lesley? I am 
busy.” 

“ I expect she thinks she can get round you more easy,” 
said Sarah, who was a very old servant, and occasionally 
took liberties with her master and mistress. 

“ She won’t do that, Sarah,” said Caspar, laughing a little 
in spite of himself. Show her in.” 

He laid down his pen and his pipe with a rather weary 
air. Really, he was becoming involved in no end of do- 
mestic worries, and with few compensations for his trouble ! 
Such was his silent thought. Lesley would shortly leave 
him : Alice had refused to come back to his house. Well, it 
would be but for a short time. He had almost made up his 
mind that when Lesley was gone he would give up a house 
altogether, establish his sister in a flat, throw journalism 


244 BROOKE DA U^GHTER, 

to the winds, and go abroad. Tlie life that he had led so 
long, the life of London offices and streets, of the study and 
the committee-room, had become distasteful to him. As he 
thrust away from him the manuscript at which he had been 
busy, his lips were, half unconsciously, murmuring a very 
well-worn quotation — 

For I will see before I die, 

The palms and temples of the South.” 

And from this passing day-dream he was roused by the 
entrance of a woman whom he knew only as his daughter’s 
maid. 

He was struck at once by some indefinable change that 
had passed over her since he had seen her last. He had 
noticed her, as he noticed everybody that came within his 
ken ; and he had remarked the mechanical precision of 
her demeanor, the dull sadness of her lifeless eyes. There 
was a light in her face now, a tremulous quiver of her lips, 
a slight color in her thin cheeks. She looked like a creature 
who could feel and think : not an automaton, worked by 
ingenious machinery. 

He noted the change, but did not estimate it at its true 
worth. He thought she was simply excited by the con- 
sciousness of her misdemeanor, and by the prospect of an 
interview with him. He put on his most magisterial 
manner as he spoke to her. 

Well, Kingston,” he said, I hope you have come to 
explain the cause of the great inconvenience you have 
brought upon Miss Brooke and my daughter.” 

‘‘That is exactly what I have come to do, sir,” said 
Kingston, looking him full in the face, and speaking in 
clear, decided tones, such as he had never heard from her 
before. She generally spoke in a muffled sort of way, as 
though she did not care to exert herself — as though she 
did not want her true voice to be heard. 

“ Sit down,” said Mr. Brooke, more kindly. He had 
the true gentleman’s instinct ; he could not bear to see a 
woman stand while he was seated, although she was only 
his daughter’s maid, and — presumably — a culprit awaiting 
condemnation. ‘'‘ Now tell me all about it.” 

“Thank you, sir, I’d prefer to stand,” said Kingston, 
quietly. “ At any rate, until I’ve told you one or two 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


245 


things about myself. To begin with : my name was Kings- 
ton before my marriage, bnt it’s not Kingston now.” 

Do you mean that you have got married since Satur- 
day ? ” asked Caspar, quietly. 

The woman uttered a short, gasping sort of laugh. 

Since Saturday ? Oh, no, sir. Tve been married for the 
last six years, or more. I am Francis Trent’s wife — 
Francis the brother of Mr. Oliver Trent, who was here 
last Saturday night.” 

And then, overcome with her confession, or with the 
look of mute astonishment — which he could not repress — 
on Caspar Brooke’s countenance, she dropped into the 
chair that he had offered her, covered her face with her 
hands and sobbed aloud. It took her hearer some seconds 
before he could adjust his mind to this new revelation. 

Do you mean,” he said at last, tliat brother of Mr. 
Trent’s ” — he had nearly said of Mrs. Romaine’s ” — who 

— who ” Ho paused, feeling unable to put into words 

the question that was in his mind. 

That got into trouble some years ago, you mean,” said 
Mrs. Trent, lifting her face from her hands, and trying to 
control her trembling voice. Yes, I mean him. I know 
all about the story. He got into trouble, and he’s gone 
from bad to worse ever since. I’ve done my best for him, 
but it doesn’t seem as if I could do much more now.” 

‘‘Why?” 

“ He’s been ill — I think he’s had an accident — but I 
don’t rightly know what’s been the matter with him. Mr. 
Brooke, sir, I hope you’ll believe me in what I say. When 
I came her? first I didn’t know that you were friends with 
his sister and his brother, or I wouldn’t have come near 
the place. And when I found it out I’d got fond of Miss 
Lesley, and thought it would be no harm to stay.” 

“ But what — what on earth — made you take a situation 
as ladies’-maid at all ? ” cried Caspar, pulling his beard in 
his perplexity, as he listened to her story. 

“ I wanted to earn money. He could not work — and I 
could not bear to see him want.” 

“ Could not work? Was it not a matter of the will? 
He could have worked if he had wished to work,” said Mr. 
Brooke, rather sternly. “ That Francis Trent should let 
his wife go out as ” 

“ Oh, well, it was work I was used to,” said Francis 
Trent’s wife, patiently. “ I’d been in service when I was 


246 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


a girl, and knew something about it. And it was honest 
work. There’s plenty of ways of earning money which 
are worse than being a servant in your house, and to Miss 
Lesley, too.^^ 

Lesley’s words came back to Caspar's mind. She had 
had faith’' in Kingston's attachment, and her faith seemed 
now to be justified. Women's instincts, as Caspar acknow- 
ledged to himself, are in some ways certainly juster than 
those of men. 

Is he not strong ? Is there no sort of work that he can 
do ? " he demanded, with asperity. ‘‘ If you had come to 
me at the beginning and told me who you were, I might 
have found something for him. It is not right that his wife 
should be waiting upon my daughter. Tell me what he can 
do." 

I don’t think he can do much now," was Mary Trent's 
answer. He's very much broken down. I daresay you 
wouldn't know him if you saw him. I don't think he could 
do a day's work, so"^ there's all the more reason that I 
should work for both.” 

She spoke truly enough as regarded the present ; but, 
by a suppression of the truth which was almost heroic she 
concealed the fact that for many years Francis had been 
able but unwilling to work. Now, certainly, he was inca- 
pacitated, and she spoke as if he had been an invalid for 
years. Thus Caspar Brooke understood her, and his next 
words were uttered in a gentler tone. 

“ I am very sorry that you should have been brought 
into these straits, Mrs. Trent. Will you give me your 
address, and let me think over the matter? ]Vfi*s. Romaine 
or Mr. Oliver Trent " 

I’d rather not have anything to do with them," said 
Mrs. Trent, quietly, but with an involuntary lifting of her 
head. ‘‘ Mrs. Romaine knows I api his wife, but she won't 
speak to me or see me." Caspar moved uneasily in his 
chair. This account of Rosalind’s behavior did not coin- 
cide with his own idea of her softness and gentleness. 
‘‘And Oliver Trent is the man who has brought more 
misery on me than any other man in the world." 

“But if I promise — as I will do — not to give your address 
to Mrs. Romaine or Mr. Trent, will you not let me know 
where you live?" said Caspar, with the gentle intonaticn 
that had often won him his way in spite of greater 
obstacles than poor Mary Trent’s obstinate will. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


247 


She gave him her address, after a little hesitation. It 
was in a Whitechapel slum. Then, seeing in his face that 
he would have liked to ask more questions, she went on 
hurriedly — 

But I have not come here to take up your time. I 
only wanted to explain to you why I left your house on 
Saturday — which I^m very sorry to have been obliged to 
do. And one other thing — but I’ll tell you that afterwards.” 

Well? Why did you go on Saturday, Mrs. Trent? ” 
said Mr. Brooke, more curious than he would have liked 
to allow. But she did not reply as directly to his question 
as he wanted her to do. 

I was only a poor girl when Francis married me,^’ she 
said, but I loved him as true as any one could have loved, 
and I would have worked my fingers to the bone for him. 
And he was good to me, in his way. He got to depend 
upon me and trust to me ; and I used to feel — especially 
when he’d had a little more than he ought to have — as if 
he was more of a child to me than a husband. It was to 
provide for him that I came here. And then — one day 
when I’d been here a little while — I went to his lodgings 
to give him some money I’d been saving up for him — 
and I found him gone — gone — without a word — without a 
message — disappeared, so to speak, and me left behind to 
be miserable.” 

Caspar ejaculated Scoundrel ! ” behind his hand, but 
Mrs. Trent heard and caught up the word. 

No, you’re wrong, sir, he was no scoundrel,” she said 
calmly. He’d met with an accident and been taken to 
an hospital. He was there for weeks and weeks, not able 
to give an account of himself, or, as far as I can make out, 
even to give his name. He came out last week, and made 
his way, by sort of instinct, to your house, where he knew 
I was living. I came out on the steps and saw him there 
— my husband that I’d given up for lost. I ran up to him 
— you’d have done the same in my place — and went with 
him without thinking of anybody else.” 

“ I see. But why did you not leave a word of explana- 
tion behind. 

I daren’t quit hold of him for a moment, sir. He was 
so dazed and stupid, he didn’t even know me at the first. 
That was why I say it was instinct, not knowledge, that 
guided him to the place. If I had left him to speak to 


248 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


any one in the house, he might have gone off, and I never 
seen him again. That was why I felt obliged to go, sir, 
and am very sorry for the inconvenience I know I must 
have caused.’^ 

Caspar nodded gravely. I see,’’ he said. Of course 
it was inconvenient, and we were anxious — there’s no 
denying that. But I can see the matter from your point 
of view. Would you like to see Miss Lesley and explain 
it to her ? ” 

“ I’d rather leave it in your hands, sir,’' said Mary Trent. 

Because there’s one thing more I’ve got to mention before 
I go. And Miss Lesley may not thank me for mentioning 
it, although I do it to save her — poor lamb — and to save 
you too, sir, from a great trouble and sorrow and disgrace 
that hangs over you all just now.” 

Caspar flushed. ‘‘Disgrace?” he said, almost angrily. 

And Mrs. Trent looked at him full in the face and 
nodded gravely, as she answered — 

“ Yes, sir, disgrace.” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


249 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

‘‘a fairly good reason.” 

Caspar Brooke's attitude stiffened. His features and 
limbs became suddenly rigid. 

I must confess, Mrs. Trent,” he said, that I am un- 
able to conceive the possibility of disgrace hanging over me 
or mine.” 

That is because you are a man, and therefore blind to 
what goes on around you,” said Mary Trent, with sudden 
bitterness ; and I am a woman, and can use my eyes and 
ears. There, I'd better tell you my tale at once, and you 
can make what you like of it. Miss Lesley ” 

If you have anything to say about Miss Lesley, it had 
better be said in her hearing,” returned Caspar, in hot 
displeasure. He rose and laid his hand upon the bell. I 
want no tales about her behind her back.” 

For mercy's sake, sir, stop,” said the woman, eagerly. 

It is only to spare her that I ask it ! It isnT that she is 
to blame — no, no, I don't mean that ; but she is in more 
danger than she knows.” 

Caspar's hand fell from the bell rope. His face had 
turned a trifle pale, and his brows looked very stern. 

Tell me exactly what you mean. I do not wish to listen 
to anything that Miss Lesley has not intended me to hear. 
I have perfect faith in her.” 

Faith in her ! She^s one of the sweetest and truest- 
hearted ladies I ever came across,” said Mary Trent, 
indignantly ; but she may be on the brink of a precipice 
without knowing it. Sir, what I mean is this. Mr. Oliver 
Trent is in love with Miss Lesley, and is doing his best to 
get her to run off with him. Yes, I know what you want 
to say — that she would never do such a thing — but one can- 
not always say what a girl will do under pressure ; and, 
believe me or not as you please, Oliver Trent is ready to 
throw over Miss Kenyon at any moment for the sake of 
your daughter, Mr. Brooke.” 


250 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


“ Do you know what you are saying ? thundered Caspar, 
now white to the lips. Do you know what an aspersion 
you are casting on my daughter’s character ? Arc you 
aware that Miss Kenyon’s marriage with Mr. Trent is to 
take place to-morrow morning ? Your remarks are per- 
fectly unjustifiable — unless you are in ignorance of the facts 
of the case.” 

‘‘ I know all, and yet I warn you,” said Mrs. Trent, per- 
fectly unmoved by this burst of anger. I tell you what I 
have seen and heard for myself. And I know Oliver Trent 
only too well. It was Oliver Trent who betrayed my only 
sister, and brought her to a miserable death. She was a 
good girl until she met him. He ruined her, and he had 
no scruples. He will have more outward respect to Miss 
Lesley and Miss Kenyon, but he is no more scrupulous 
about using his power, when he has any, than he was 
then.” 

After making this accusation you must not be surprised 
if I ask what grounds you have for it,” said Mr. Brooke. 

He was calm enough to all appearance now, but even 
Mrs. Trent, not very observant by nature, could tell that 
he was very much disturbed. For answer, she proceeded 
to describe the scene that had taken place in the very 
room in which they now stood, on the preceding Saturday 
night. 

I saw him follow Miss Lesley into this room,” she ex- 
plained. ‘‘ And I’d seen enough to make me fearful of 
what he was going to do or say. You know there are folding- 
doors between this room and the next — screened by cur- 
tains. The doors had been partly opened, and I slipped 
into the space between them. I was covered by the curtain, 
and I could not hear all that was said, because I had sounds 
from the other room in my ears as well ; but I heard a 
great deal, and I made up my mind to tell you there and 
then. If I had not seen my husband that night you would 
have heard my story before you slept.” 

Caspar Brooke’s next question took her by surprise. He 
swung round on one heel, so that his back was almost 
turned to her, and flung the words over his shoulder with 
savage bitterness. 

What business had you to listen to my daughter’s con- 
versation with her friends ? ” 

This was a distinctly ungrateful speech, and Mrs. Trent 
felt it so. But she replied, quietly — 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


251 


Miss Lesley^s been kinder to me than any one I ever 
knew. And I had suffered a good deal from Oliver Trent’s 
wicked falseness. He is my brother-in-law, as the law puts 
it, and I don’t want to have any quarrel with him : but he 
shall do no more harm than I can help.” 

By the time she had finished her speech Caspar had 
recovered himself a little. 

You are quite right,” he said, and you have done me 
a service for which I thank you. I don’t for a moment 
suppose that my daughter is not capable of taking care of 
herself. But other people are interested beside Lesley. 
Miss Kenyon’s brother is one of my closest friends, and I 
should be very treacherous if I allowed her to marry this 
man, Oliver Trent, after all that I have heard about him to- 
night — if it be true. I don’t want to throw doubt on your 
testimony, Mrs. Trent, but I suppose I must have some 
further proof.” 

Miss Lesley could tell you ” 

I shall not ask Miss Lesley, unless I am obliged. Did 
you not yourself beg me to spare her? This other story of 
his heartless conduct to your sister is quite enough to 
damn him in every right-minded woman’s eyes. I shall 
speak to him myself — I will have the truth from his own lips 
if I have to wring it out by main force,” said Caspar speak- 
ing more to himself than to Mary Trent, and quite unaware 
how truculent an appearance he presented at that moment 
to that quiet woman’s eyes. 

She smiled stealthily to herself. She had a great faith in 
Caspar Brooke’s powers for good or evil. To have him 
upon her side made her support with equanimity the 
thought that she and Francis might suffer if Oliver did not 
marry a rich wife. ETe would see that they did not want. And 
she should behold the darling wish of her heart gratified 
at last. For had she not ardently desired, ever since the 
day of Alice’s betrayal and Alice’s death, to see that false 
betrayer punished? Caspar Brooke would punish him, 
and she should be the instrument through which his punish- 
ment had come about. 

I should like to thrash the scoundrel within an inch of 
his life,” said Mr. Brooke. 

There is very little time before the wedding, if you 
mean to do anything before then,” said Mrs. Trent, softly. 

Caspar started. ‘‘Yes, that is true. I must see him 
to-night. H’m” — he stopped short, oppressed by the dif- 


252 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


ficiilties of the situation. Had he not better speak to 
Maurice Kenyon at once ? But, as he recollected, Maurice 
had gone out of town, and would not be back until half an 
hour or so before the hour fixed for his sister’s wedding. 
The ceremony was to be performed at an unusually early 
hour — ten o’clock in the morning — for divers reasons : one 
being that Ethel wanted to begin her journey to Paris in 
very good time. She had never been anxious for a fashion- 
able wedding, and had decided to have no formal wed- 
ding breakfast, and there was no reason for delaying 
the proceedings until a later hour. But, as Mr. Brooke 
reflected, unless he went to Ethel Kenyon herself there 
was little time in which to take action. Indeed, it seemed 
to him for a moment almost better to let the past sink into 
oblivion, and to hope that Oliver would be kind and faith- 
ful to the beautiful and gifted girl who was, apparently, the 
choice of his heart. 

But it was not to Mrs. Trent’s interest that this mood 
should last. “Poor Miss Kenyon!” she said, in quietly 
regretful tones. I’m sorry for her, poor young lady. No 
mother or father to look after her, and no friend even who 
dares to tell her the truth I ” 

The words stung Caspar. He thought of his own daugh- 
ter Lesley, placed in Ethel’s position, and he felt that he 
could not let Ethel go unwarned. And yet — could he 
believe Oliver Trent to be such a scoundrel on the mere 
strength of this woman’s story 1 It might be all a baseless 
slander, fabricated for the sake of obtaining money. And 
there was so little time before poor Ethel’s wedding 1 

While he hesitated, Mary Trent saw her opportunity, 
and seized it. 

“ If you want to see Oliver Trent,” she said, “ he is 
coming to our lodgings this very night. I have been to 
Mrs. Romaine’s house to ask him to come to my husband 
who wants a few words with him. If you’ll undertake to 
come there, I’ll let you see what sort of a man Mr. Oliver 
Trent is, and then you can judge for yourself whether or no 
he is a fit husband for Miss Kenyon, or a fit lover for Miss 
Lesley Brooke.” 

Caspar raised his hand hastily as if to entreat silence. 
“ Tell me where you live,” he said shortly, “ and the hour 
when he will be there.” 

“ Half-past nine o’clock this evening, sir. The place — 
oh, you know the place well enough : it is in Whitechapel.” 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


253 


She gave him the address. He cast a keen, sharp glance 
at her face as he took it down. Not a pleasant neighbor- 
hood,'' he said gravely. May I ask why you have taken 
a room in that locality ? " 

She shook her head. I did not take it,” she said. My 
husband took it before I found him, and I was obliged to 
stay. Francis is ill — I cannot get him away.” 

‘‘ Can I do anything to help " Caspar was beginning 

but she interrupted him with almost surprising vehemence. 

Oh, no, no. I would not take anything from you. I 
did not come for that. I came to see if I could save Miss 
Lesley and Miss Kenyon from misery, not to beg — either 
for myself or him.'' 

The earnestness of her tone took from Mr. Brooke a cer- 
tain uneasy suspicion which had begun to steal over him : 
a suspicion that she was using him as a tool for her own 
ends, that her real motives had been concealed from him. 
Even when she had gone — and she went without making 
any attempt to see Lesley or Miss Brooke — he could not 
rid himself altogether of this suggestion ; for with her sad 
voice no longer echoing in his ears, with her deep-set eyes 
"looking no longer into his face, he found it easier to doubt 
and to suspect than to place implicit faith in the story that 
she had told him. 

Lesley had heard of Kingston's reappearance, and was 
very much surprised to find that she was not called upon to 
interview her runaway attendant . Still more was she sur- 
prised when at last she heard the front door shut, and 
learned from Sarah that the woman had gone without a 
word. So much amazed was she, that shortly before dinner 
she stole into her father's study and attempted to cross- 
examine him, though with small result. 

Father, Sarah says that Kingston has oeen to see you.” 

Yes, she has,'' said Caspar, briefly. He was writing 
away as if for dear life, with his left hand grasping his 
beard, and his pipe lying unfilled upon the table — two signs 
of dire haste, as Lesley had by this time learned to know. 
She remained silent, therefore, feeling herself an intruder. 

What do you want to know, my dear? '' said her father 
at last, in a quiet, business-like tone. He went on writing 
all the time. 

Is she coming back to us ? 

No.” 


254 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Why did she go away ? ” 

‘‘ I cannot tell you just now. She had a — a — fairly good 
reason.’^ 

‘‘I thought she must have had that,” said Lesley, bright- 
ening. ‘‘ And did she come here to explain ? 

Partly.” 

But why not to us ? ” 

Caspar laid down his pen suddenly, and laughed. Oh, 
the insatiable curiosity of women ! I thought you were 
wiser than most, Lesley, but you have all the characteristics 
of your sex. I can’t satisfy your curiosity to-day, but I 
will, if I can, in a short time. Will that do? ” 

Lesley seemed rather hurt. I don’t think I asked 
questions out of mere curiosity,” she said. “ I always 
liked Kingston.” 

‘‘ And she likes you, my dear — so far you were perfectly 
right,” said her father, rising, and patting her on the arm. 

To use your feminine parlance, she is quite as ‘ fond ^ of 
you as you can reasonably desire.” 

I don’t like to hear so much about ‘feminine ’ ways and 
characteristics,” said Lesley, smiling, and recovering her 
spirits. ‘‘ I always fancy somebody has vexed you when 
you talk in that cynical manner.” 

‘‘That remark is creditable to your penetration,” said 
Mr. Brooke, in his accustomed tone of gentle raillery, “ and 
you cannot say that it is not a very harmless way of letting 
off steam.” 

Who has vexed you then? said Lesley, looking keenly 
into his face. It was a bold question, but her father did 
not look displeased. 

“Suppose I said — you yourself?” he queried, with a 
certain real gravity which she was not slow to discover. 

The color rushed into her face. She thought of Maurice 
Kenyon, and the mistake that he had made. She had long 
been conscious of her father’s disappointment, but had not 
expected him to speak of it. She made an effort to be 
equal to the situation. 

“ If you are vexed with me, it would be kinder to tell me 
of it than to sneer at all womankind in general,” she said, 
with spirit. 

“ Right you are, my girl. Well — why have you refused 
Kenyon ? ” 

Her eyes drooped. “ I would rather you did not ask me 
that, father.” 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


255 

Nonsense, Lesley. A plain answer to a plain question 
is easy to give. Are you in love with any one else ? ” 

No, indeed,” she answered, vehemently ; I am not 


And then, for some inexplicable reason, she stopped 
short. 

‘‘ ‘ Not in love with any one ^ was what she was going to 
say,” said Caspar to himself, as he watched with keen eyes 
the changes of color and expression in her face. And she 
does not dare to say it after all. What does that mean ? ” 
But he did not say this aloud. 

You don’t care for Maurice, then ? ” he asked her. 

She drew herself away from him and colored hotly, but 
made no other reply. 

My dear,” said Caspar, half jestingly, half warningly, 
you must let me remind you that silence is usually taken 
to mean consent.” 

And even then she did not speak. 

Really, of all incomprehensible creatures, women are 
the worst. Well, well ! Tell me this, at any rate, Lesley : 
you have not given your heart to Oliver Trent ? ” 

Father ! how can you ask ? ” 

“ Have you anything to complain of with respect to 
him ? Has he always behaved to you with courtesy and 
consideration ? ” 

I would rather not say,” Lesley answered, bravely. 
He — spoke as I did not like — once — or twice ; but it is 
his wedding-day to-morrow, and I mean to forget it all.” 

Once or twice ! When was the last time, child ? On 
Saturday ? Here in this room ? Ah, I see the truth in 
your face. Never mind how I know it. I want to know 
nothing more. Now you can go : I am busy, and shall 
probably have to be out late to-night.” 

With these words he led the girl gently out of the room, 
kissed her on the forehead before he shut the door, and then 
returned to his work. He did not dine with his sister and 
daughter, but sent a message of excuse. Later in the 
evening, Sarah reported to Miss Brooke that Master had 
gone out, looking very much upset about something or 
other ; and he’d taken his overcoat and his big stick, which 
showed, she supposed, that he was off to the slums he was 
so fond of.” Sarah did not approve of slums. 


256 


BROOKE’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

ETHEL KENYON’S WEDDING-DAY. 

The morning of Ethel Kenyon’s wedding-day was as 
bright and sunny as any wedding day had need to be. 
The weather was unusually warm, and the trees were al- 
ready showing the thin veil of green which is one of 
spring’s first heralds in smoky London town. The window- 
boxes in the Square were gay with hyacinth and crocus- 
blossom. The flower-girls’ baskets were brilliant with 
‘‘ market bunches ” of wall-flowers and daffodils — these be- 
ing the signs by which the dwellers in the streets know that 
the winter is over, that the time of the singing of birds has 
come, and that the voice of the turtle is heard in the land. 
The soft breezes blew a fragrance of violets and lilac- 
blossom from the gardens and the parks. London scarcely 
looked like itself, with the veil of smoke lifted away, and a 
fair blue sky, flecked with light silvery cloud, showing 
above the chimney-tops. 

Ethel was up at seven o’clock, busying herself with the 
last touches to her packing and the consideration of her 
toilet ; for she was much too active-minded to care for the 
seclusion in which brides sometimes preserve themselves 
upon their wedding-mornings. Some people might have 
thought that it would not be a very festive day, for her 
brother was the only near relative who remained to her, 
and an ancient uncle and aunt who had been, as Ethel 
herself phrased it, ‘‘ routed out ” for the occasion, were 
not likely to add much to the gaiety of nations by their 
presence. Mrs. Durant, lately Ethel’s companion, was to 
remain in the house as Maurice’s housekeeper, and she 
had nominally the control of everything ; but Ethel was 
still the veritable manager of the day’s arrangements. She 
had insisted on having her own way in all respects, and 
Oliver was not the man to say her nay — just then. 

Mrs. Romaine had offered to stay the night with her, 
and help her to dress ; but Ethel had smilingly refused 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


257 


the companionship of her future sister-in-law. “Thanks 
very much,” she had said, in the light and airy way which 
took the sting out of words that might otherwise have hurt 
their hearer; ‘‘but I don’t think theiVs anything in which 
I want help, and Lesley Brooke is going to act as my maid 
on the eventful morn itself.” 

“ Lesley Brooke ? ” said Mrs. Romaine. She could not 
altogether keep the astonishment out of her voice. 

“ Yes, why not ? ” asked Ethel, with just so much defi- 
ance in her voice as to put Mrs. Romaine considerably on 
her guard. “ Have you any objection } ” 

“ Dear Ethel, how can you ask such a thing ? When 
you know how fond I am of Lesley.” 

“ Are you ? ” asked Miss Kenyon lightly. “ Do you 
know I should never have thought it, somehow. / am 
exceedingly fond of Lesley, and so ” — with a little more 
color in her face than usual — “ so is Oliver.” 

Bravely as she spoke, there was something in the accent 
which told of effort and repression. Mrs. Romaine ad- 
mired her for that little piece of acting more than she had 
ever admired her upon the stage. She was too anxious 
for her brother’s prosperity to say a word to disturb Ethel’s 
serenity, whether it was real or assumed. 

“ I am so glad, dear,” she said, sweetly. “ Lesley is a 
dear girl, and thoroughly good and loving. I am quite 
sure you could not have a better friend, and she will be 
delighted to do anything she can for you.” 

“ I don’t know about that,” said Ethel, with a little pout. 
“ I had a great deal of trouble to get her to promise to 
come. She made all sorts of excuses — one would have 
thought that she did not want to see me married at all.” 

Which, Rosalind thought, might be very true. She had 
so strong a faith in the power of her brother’s fascinations 
that she could not believe that he had actually “ made 
love,” as he had threatened, to Lesley Brooke without 
success. 

Ethel spoke truly when she said that she had had great 
difficulty in persuading Lesley to come. After what had 
passed between herself and Oliver, Lesley felt herself a 
traitress in Ethel’s presence. It seemed to her at first 
impossible to talk to Ethel about her pretty wedding gifts, 
her trousseau and her wedding tour, or to listen while she 
swore fidelity to Oliver Trent, when she knew what she 


^58 


BROCKETS Daughter, 


did know concerning the bridegroom’s faith and honor. 
On the Sunday after the Brookes’ evening party she had a 
very severe headache, and sent word to Ethel that she 
could not possibly come to her on the morrow. But Ethel 
immediately came over to see her, and poured forth ques- 
tions, consolations, and laments in such profusion that 
Lesley, half blind and dazed, was fain to get rid of her by 
promising again that nothing should keep her away. And 
on Monday the headache had gone, and she had no excuse. 
It was not in Lesley’s nature to simulate : she could not 
pretend that she had an illness when she was perfectly 
well. There was absolutely no reason that she could give 
either to the Kenyons or to Miss Brooke for not keeping 
her promise to sleep at Ethel’s house on the Monday 
night, and be present at her wedding on Tuesday morning. 

So she wound herself up to make the best it. It seemed 
to her that no girl had ever been placed in so painful a 
position before. We, who have more experience of life than 
Lesley had, know better than that. Lesley’s position was 
painful indeed, but it might in many ways have been worse. 
But she, ignorant of real life, more ignorant even than most 
girls, because she knew so few of the pictures of real life 
that are to be found in the best kind of novels, had nothing 
but her native instincts of truth and courage to fall back 
upon, together with the strong will and power of judgment 
that she inherited from her father. These qualities, how- 
ever, stood her in good stead that day. ‘‘ It is no use to 
be weak,” she said to herself. “ What good shall I do to 
Ethel if I give her cause to suspect Oliver Trent’s truth to 
her ? The only question is — ought I to tell her — to put 
her on her guard ? Oh, I think not — I hope not. If he 
marries her, he cannot help loving her ; and it would break 
her heart — now — if I told her that he was not faithful. I 
must be brave and go to her, and be as sympathetic as usual 
— take pleasure in her pleasure, and try to forget the past ! 
but I wish she were going to marry a man that one could 
trust, like my father, or like — Maurice.” 

She always called him Maurice when she thought about 
him now. 

It took all the strength that she possessed, however, to go 
through the ordeal of those hours with Ethel. She managed 
to keep away until nearly nine o’clock on Monday night, 
and then — just after her father had gone out — she received 


BROOKr:s daughter. 


259 

a peremptory little note from Ethel. ‘‘Why don’t you 
come ? You said you would come almost directly after 
dinner, and it is ever so late now. Oliver has just left me : 
he has business in the city, so 1 shall not see him again 
until to-morrow. Do come at once, or I shall begin to 
feel lonely.” 

So Lesley went. 

She had to look at the wedding-cake, the wedding-gown, 
the simple little breakfast table. She sat up with Ethel 
until two in the morning, helping her to pack up her things, 
and listening to her praises of Oliver. That was the worst 
of it. Ethel would talk of Oliver, would descant on his 
perfections, and, above all, on his love for her. It was 
very natural talk on Ethel’s part, but it was indescribably 
painful and humiliating to Lesley. Every moment of silence 
seemed to her like an implicit lie, and yet she could not 
bring herself to destroy the fine edifice of her friend’s hopes, 
although she knew she could bring it down to the ground 
with a touch — a word. 

‘ “ And I am so glad there is not to be a fuss,” Ethel said 
at last, when St. Pancras’ clock was striking two : “ for I 
always thought that a fussy wedding would be horrid. You 
see, Lesley, I have dressed up so often in white satin and 
lace, as a bride, or a girl in a ballroom, or some other 
character not my own, that I feel now as if there would be 
no reality for me in a wedding if I did not wear rather 
every-day clothes. In a bride’s conventional dress, I should 
only fancy myself on the stage again.” 

“ You don’t call the dress you are to wear to-morrow 
‘ every-day clothes,’ do you ? ” said Lesley, with a smiling 
glance towards the lovely gown in which Ethel had elected 
to be married, and then to wear during the first part of her 
wedding-journey. 

“ I call it just a nice, pretty frock — nothing else,” said 
Ethel, complacently, “ one that I can pay calls in after- 
wards. But I could not refuse the lovely lace Maurice in- 
sisted on giving me : so I shall wear a veil instead of a bon- 
net — it is the only concession I make to conventionality.” 

“ I wish you would go to sleep, Ethel : you will look 
very pale under your veil to-morrow.” 

“ Well, I will try ; but I don’t feel like it. I hope Mau- 
rice will be back in good time. It was very tiresome of 
that patient of his to send for him in such a hurry.” 


26 o 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Then tliere was a silence, for both girls were growing 
sleepy ; and it was with a yawn that Ethel at last in- 
quired — 

‘‘ Lesley, why won’t your father come to my wedding ? ” 
Won’t he? ” said Lesley, with a little start 
Not he : I asked him again on Saturday, and he re- 
fused/’ 

‘‘ Perhaps,’’ said Lesley, not very steadily, “ it gives him 
pain to be present at a wedding : he speaks sometimes — 
as if he did not like to hear of them.” 

Oh, you poor, dear thing, I had forgotten all that trou- 
ble,” said Ethel, giving her friend a hug which nearly 
strangled her ; ‘‘ but won’t it come right in the end ? 
Captain Duchesne says that she is so sweet, so charming — 
and your father is just delightful.” 

‘‘ I think I can’t talk about it,” said Lesley, very quietly. 

“ Then we won’t. Did you know I had asked Captain 
Duchesne to the breakfast ? ” 

Oh, Ethel, how heartless of you ! ” Lesley said, laugh- 
ing in spite of herself. For Captain Duchesne’s devotion 
was patent to all the world. 

At last they slept in each other’s arms ; but at seven 
o’clock Ethel was skimming about the room like a busy 
fairy, and it was Lesley, sleeping heavily after two or three 
wakeful nights, who had to be aroused by the little bride- 
elect, and Ethel laughed merrily to see her friend’s start of 
surprise. 

“ Ethel ! Ethel ! People should be waiting on you and 
here you are bringing me tea and bread and butter. This is 
too bad ! ” 

It’s a new departure,” Ethel laughed. There is no 
law against a bride’s making herself useful as well as orna- 
mental, is there ? You will have to hurry up, all the same, 
Lesley : we are dreadfully late already. And it is the love- 
liest morning you ever saw — and the bouquets have just 
come from the florist — and everything is charming ! I feel 
as if I could dance.” 

But Ethel’s mirth did not communicate itself to Lesley. 
There was nothing forced or unnatural in the young 
bride’s happiness, but Lesley felt as if some cloud, some 
shadow, were in the air. Perhaps she had had bad dreams. 
She would not damp Ethel’s spirits by a word of warning, 
but the old aunt from the country who came to iinspect her 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


261 


niece as soon as she was dressed for church was not so 
considerate. 

You are letting your spirits run away with you, my 
dear,” she said, reprovingly. Even on a wedding-day 
there should not be too much laughter. Tears before 
night, when there has been laughter before breakfast, 
remember the proverb says.” 

“ Oh, what a cheerful old lady ! ” said Ethel, brimming 
over with saucy laughter once more, as soon as tlie old 
dame’s back was turned. I don’t care : I don’t mean to 
be anything but a smiling bride — Oliver says that he hates 
tears at a wedding, and 1 don’t mean him to see any.” 

Maurice arrived just in time to dress and to escort his 
sister to the church. It was not he, but Mrs. Durant, the 
companion and house-keeper, who first received a word of 
warning that things were not altogether as they should be. 
Others beside Lesley were scenting calamity in the air. 
Mrs. Romaine was to form one of the wedding-party. She 
m ade her appearance at a quarter to ten, beautifully dressed, 
but white to the very lips, and with a haggard look about 
her eyes. As soon as she entered the house she drew 
Mrs. Durant aside. 

“ Has Oliver been sleeping here ? ” she asked. 

Here !'' Mrs. Durant’s indignant accent was sufficient 
answer. 

He has not been home all night,” Mrs. Romaine whis- 
pered. 

Not at home I ” 

I suppose he is sleeping at his club and will come on 
from there,” Mrs. Romaine answered, trying to reassure her- 
self now that she had given the alarm to another. Every- 
thing has been ordered — my bouquet came from him, at 
least from the florist’s this morning — and I suppose we 
shall find him at the church. But I have been dreadfully 
anxious about him — quite foolishly, I daresay. Don’t say 
anything to any body else.” 

Mrs. Durant did not mean to say anything, but — without 
exactly stating facts — she had managed in about three 
minutes to convey her own and Mrs. Romaine’s feeling of 
discomfort to the whole party. The only exceptions were 
Maurice and Ethel, who, of course, heard nothing. A gloom 
fell upon the guests even while the carriages were standing 
at the door. 


262 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


Lesley and Mrs. Komaine ha])pened to be placed in the 
same carriage, facing one another. They looked at one 
another in silence, but with a mutual understanding that 
they had never felt before. Each read her own fear in the 
other’s face. But the fear came from different sources. 
T^esley was afraid that Oliver had felt himself unable to 
fulfil his engagement to Ethel, and had therefore severed 
his connection with her by flight : Rosalind feared that he 
had been taken ill or met with some untoward accident. 
Only in Rosalind’s mind there was always another fear in 
the back ground where her brothers were concerned — that 
one or other of them would be bringing himself and her to 
disaster and disgrace. She had no faith in them, and not 
much faith in herself. 

There was no bridegroom in waiting at St. Pancras’ 
Church. Mrs. Romaineheld a hurried consultation with a 
friend, and a messenger was despatched to Oliver’s club, 
where he sometimes slept, and also to the rooms which he 
called his chambers” in the city. A little silence over- 
spread the group of guests from the Kenyons’ house. Other 
visitors, of whom there were not many, looked blithe 
enough ; but gloom was plainly visible on the faces of the 
bride’s friends. And a little whisper soon ran from group 
to group — “ The bridegroom has not come.” 

If only he would appear before the bride 1 There was 
yet time. The carriage containing Ethel and her brother 
lui J not started from the door. But the distance was short, 
and speedily traversed : still Oliver did not come. And 
there at last was the wedding-chariot with its white silk 
linings and the white favors on the horses — and there was 
the pretty, smiling bride herself upon her brother’s arm. 
How sweet she looked as she mounted the broad grey 
steps, with cheeks a little rosy, eyes downcast, and her 
smiles half concealed by the costly lace in which she had 
veiled herself ! There was never a prettier bride than 
Ethel Kenyon, although she had not attired herself in all 
the bridal finery that many women covet. 

Something in the expression of the faces that met her at 
the church door startled her a little when she first looked 
up : she changed color, and glanced wonderingly from 
one to another. Some one spoke in Maurice Kenyon’s ear. 

What is it ? ” she asked, quickly. ‘‘ Is anything 
wrong ? ” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 263 

“Oliver is late, dear, that is all. Just wait a minute — 
here by the door : he will be here presently.’’ 

“ Late ! ” re-echoed the girl, turning suddenly pale. 
“ Oh Maurice, what do you mean ? We were late too — 
it is a quarter past ten.” 

“ Hush, my darling, he will be here directly, and more 
distressed than any of us, no doubt.” 

“ I should think so,” said Ethel, trying to laugh. “ Poor 
Oliver I what a state he will be in ! ” 

But the hand with which she had suddenly clutched 
Lesley’s arm trembled, and her lips were very white. 

For a minute, for five, for ten minutes, the bridal party 
waited, but Oliver did not come. A messenger came back 
to say that he had not been at the club since the previous 
day. And then Maurice’s hot temper blazed up. He left 
his sister and spoke to his old friend. Miss Brooke. 

“ Do not let Ethel make herself a laughing-stock,” he 
said. “The man insults us by being late, and shall account 
to me for it, but she must be got out of this somehow. 
Can’t you take her away ? ” 

“Let her go to the vestry,” said Miss Brooke. “You 
had better not take her away just yet — look at the crowd 
outside. I will get Lesley to persuade her.” 

Ethel made no opposition. She went quietly into the 
vestry, and sat down on a seat that was offered to her, 
waiting in silence, asking no questions. Then there was a 
short period of whispered consultation, of terrible suspense. 
She herself did not know whether the time was short or long. 
She could not bear even Lesley’s arm about her, or the sup- 
port of Maurice’s brotherly hand. Harry Duchesne’s dark 
face in the background seemed in some inexplicable sort of 
way the worst of all. For she knew that he loved and 
admired her, and she was shamed by a recreant lover before 
his very eyes. 

After a time Maurice was called out. A policeman in 
plain clothes wanted to speak to him. They had five 
minutes’ conversation together, and then the young doctor 
returned to the room where Ethel was still sitting. His 
face was as white as that of his sister now, and she was 
the first to remark the change. 

You have heard something,” she said, springing to her 
feet and fixing her great dark eyes upon his face. 

“ Yes, Ethel, my poor darling, yes. Come home with. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER 


C64 

Not till you tell me the truth.’’ 

Not here, my darling — wait till we get home. Come 
at once.” 

I must know, Maurice : I cannot bear to wait. Is he 
— is he — dead ? ” 

He would gladly have refused to answer, but his pallid 
lips spoke for him. And from another group a shriek rang 
out from the lips of Rosalind Romaine — a shriek that told 
lier all. 

“ Dead? Murdered ? Oh, no, no — it cannot be ? ” cried 
Oliver’s sister. “ Not dead ! not dead ! ” 

She fell back in violent hysterics, but Ethel neither wept 
nor cried aloud. She stood erect, her head a little higher 
than usual, a smile that might almost be called proud curv- 
ing her soft lips. 

“You see,” she said, unsteadily, but very clearly ; “ you 
see — it was not his fault. He would have come — if he 
liad been — alive.” 

And then, still smiling, she gave her hand to her brother 
and let him lead her away. But before she had crossed 
the threshold of the room, he was obliged to take her in 
his arms to save her from falling, and it was in his arms 
that she was carried back to the carriage which she had 
left so smilingly. 

But for those who were left behind there was more bad 
news to hear. In London no secret can be kept even from 
the ears of those whose heart it breaks to hear it. Before 
noon the newsboys were crying in the streets — 

Brutal murder of a gentleman on his wedding-day. 
Arrest of a well-known journalist.” 

And everywhere the name bandied from pillar to post 
was that of Mr. Caspar Brooke, who had been arrested 
on suspicion of having caused the death of Oliver Trent. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


265 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

IN ETHEL S ROOM. 

To those wno knew Caspar Brooke best, it seemed ridicu- 
lously impossible that he should have been accused of any 
act of violence. But the accusation was made with so 
much circumstantial detail that no course seemed open to 
the police but to arrest him with as little delay as possible. 
And before the ill-fated wedding party had been dispersed, 
before Miss Brooke could hurry home, and long before 
Lesley suspected the blow that was in store for her, he had 
been taken by two policemen in plain clothes to the Bow 
Street Police station. 

The full extent of the misfortune did not burst upon 
Doctor Sophy all at once. When she left the church the 
accusation was not publicly known, and as she walked home 
she reflected on the account that she must give to her bro- 
ther of the extraordinary events of the day. She wished he 
had been present, and wondered why he had shirked the 
invitation which had been sent him by Ethel. He was not 
usually out of bed at this hour, but she resolved to go to 
his room and tell him the story at once, for, though he had 
never cared much for poor Oliver Trent, he had always 
been fond of Ethel. Lesley had gone to the Kenyons’ 
house at Maurice’s earnest request, and might not be back 
for some time. 

She opened the door with her latch-key, and, to her great 
surprise, was confronted at once by Sarah, her face swollen, 
and her eyes red with weeping. 

Sarah ! why — have you heard the dreadful news al- 
ready ? ” said Miss Brooke. 

Have heard it, is more the question, I’m thinking ? ” 
said Sarah, grimly. 

Of course you mean — about poor Mr. Trent? 

More than that, ma’am. However, here’s a letter from 
master to you, and that’ll tell you more than I can do.” 
And Sarah handed a note to her mistress, and retired to 
the back gf the hall, sniffing audibly. 


266 


BKOOKES DAUGHTER, 


Miss Brooke walked into the dining-room and opened 
the note. Caspar had gone out, she gathered from tlie 
fact of his having written to her at all : perhaps he had 
heard of Oliver Trent’s death, and had gone to offer his 
services to Maurice, or to assist in discovering the murderer. 
So she thought to herself; and then she began to read the 
note. 

In another minute Sarah heard a strange, muffled cry ; 
and running into the room found that Miss Brooke had 
sunk down on the sofa, and was trembling in every limb. 
Her brother’s letter was crushed within her hand. 

‘‘What does it mean, Sarah? — what does it mean?” 
she stammered, with a face so white and eyes so terror- 
stricken that Sarah took her to task at once. 

“ It means a great, big lie, ma’am, that’s all it means. 
AVhy, you ain’t going to be put about by that, I hope, when 
master himself says — as he said to me — that he’d be home 
afore night ! I’m ashamed of you, looking as pale as you 
do, and you a doctor and all ! ” 

“ Did he say to you he would be home before night? ” 
said Miss Brooke collecting herself a little, but still look- 
ing, very white. 

Sarah took a step nearer to her, and spoke in a low voice. 
“ Nobody else in the house knows where he’s gone,” she 
said, “ but I know, for master called me himself, and told 
me what they wanted him for. It was two men in plain 
clothes, and there was a cab outside and a p’liceman on 
the box. ^ Of course it’s all a mistake, Sarah,’ he said to 
me, as light-hearted as you please, ‘and don’t let Miss 
Lesley or your Missus be anxious. I dare say I shall be 
back in an hour or two.’ And then he asked the men if he 
might write a note, and they let him, though they read it 
as he wrote, the nasty wretches ! ” — and Sarah snorted 
contemptuously, while she wiped away a tear from her left 
eye with her apron. 

“ But it is so extraordinary — so ridiculous ! ” said Miss 
Brooke. And then, with a little more color in her face, she 
read her brother’s letter over again. 

It consisted only of these words — 

Dear Sophy, — Don’t worry yourself. The police have got it into 
their wise heads that I had something to do with poor Tient’s tragic 
end. I dare say I shall be back soon, but I must go and hear what 
they’ve got to say. Take care of Lesley. — C. B .” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


267 


‘‘Take care of Lesley ! As if she wanted taking care 
of!’’ said Miss Brooke, with sudden energy. “Sarah, go 
over at once to Mr. Kenyon’s, and tell Miss Lesley to come 
home. She can’t stay there while this is going on. It isn’t 
decent.” 

Sarah was rather glad to execute this order. She was of 
opinion that Miss Lesley needed to be taken down a bit, 
and that this was the way in which the Lord saw fit to do 
it. And it never occurred to Miss Brooke to caution the 
woman against startling Lesley or hurting her feelings. 
Shehdid been startled certainly, and almost overcome ; but 
she belonged to that class of middle-aged women who think 
that their emotions must necessarily be stronger than those 
of young people, because they are older and understand 
what sorrow means, whereas the reverse is usually the case. 
Besides, Miss Brooke quite underrated the warmth of Les- 
ley’s attachment to her father, and was not prepared to see 
her experience anything but shallow and commonplace 
regret. 

So Sarah went to the house opposite and knocked at the 
door. She had to knock twice before the door was 
opened, for the whole household was out of joint. The 
maids were desperately clearing away all signs of festivity 
— flowers, wedding-cake, the charming little breakfast that 
had been prepared for the guests — everything that told of 
wedding preparation, and had now such a ghastly look. 
Under Mrs. Durant’s direction the servants were endeavor- 
ing to restore to the rooms their wonted appearance. 
Ethel’s trunks had been piled into an empty room : she 
would not want her trousseau now, poor child. The uncle 
from the country was pacing up and down the deserted 
drawing-room ; the aunt was fussing about Ethel’s dressing- 
room, nervously folding up articles of clothing and putting 
away trifles. All the blinds were down, as if for a funeral. 
And in Ethel’s own room, the girl lay on her bed, white 
and rigid as a corpse, with half-shut eyes that did not seem 
to see, and fingers so tightly closed that the nails almost 
ran into her soft palms. Since she had been laid there she 
had not spoken ; no one could quite tell whether she 
were conscious or not ; but Lesley, who sat beside her, 
and sometimes laid her cheek softly against the desolate 
young bride’s cold face, or kissed the ashen-grey lips, 
divined by instinct that she was not unconscious although 


268 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Stunned by the force of the blow — that she was thinking, 
thinking, thinking all the time — thinking of her lost lover, of 
her lost happiness, and beating herself passionately against 
the wall of darkness which had arisen between her and 
the future that she had planned for herself and Oliver. 

Sarah asked at once for Miss Lesley Jhooke, and Mrs. 
Durant came out of the dining-room to speak to the mes- 
senger. 

Is Miss Brooke wanted very particularly ? ” she asked. 
“ Miss Kenyon will not have anyone else with her.*’ 

‘‘ I think I must speak to Miss Lesley, ma’am ; my mis- 
tress said I must,'’ said Sarah, primly. Then, forgetting 
her loyalty to her employers in her desire to be communi- 
cative, she went on — Maybe you haven’t heard what’s 
happened, ma’am. Mr. Brooke’s been taken up on the 
charge of murder ” 

This was not strictly true, but it was the way in which 
Sarah read the facts. 

And Miss Brooke says Miss Lesley must come home, as 
it is not proper for her to stay.” 

The horror depicted on Mrs. Durant’s face was quite as 
great as Sarah had anticipated, and even more so. Lor 
ilrs. Durant, a conventional and narrow-minded woman, 
did not know enough of Caspar Brooke’s character to feel 
any indignation at the accusation : indeed, she was the sort 
of woman who was likely to put a vulgar construction upon 
his motives, and regard it as probable that he had quarreled 
with Oliver for not wishing to marry Lesley instead of 
Ethel Kenyon. And she at once grasped the situation. 
Under the circumstances — if Caspar Brooke had killed 
Ethel’s lover — it was most improper that Caspar Brooke’s 
daughter should be staying in the house. 

‘‘Of course!’^ she said, with a shocked face, “Miss 
Lesley Brooke must go at once — naturally. How very 
terrible ! I am much obliged to Miss Brooke for sending 

— as Ethel’s chaperon I couldn’t undertake I’ll go 

upstairs and send her down to you.” 

Sarah was left in the hall, while Mrs. Durant went up- 
stairs. But after a time the lady came down with a troubled 
air. 

“ I can’t get her to come,” she said. “ You must go up 
yourself, Sarah, and speak to her. She will come into the 
dressing-room, she says, for a minute, but she cannot leave 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


269 


Miss Kenyon for a longer time. You must tell her quietly 
what has happened, and then she will no doubt see the 
advisability of going away.^' 

Sarah went upstairs, therefore, and entered the dressing- 
room, where the old aunt was still busy ; and in a minute 
or two Lesley appeared. 

What is it ? she said, briefly. 

‘‘Your aunt sent me to say you must come home at 
once, miss.^' 

“ I cannot come just yet : Miss Kenyon wishes me to 
stay with her,” said Lesley, with dignity. 

“You’d better come. Miss Lesley. I don’t want to tell 
you the dreadful news just now : you’d better hear it at 
home. Then you’ll be glad you came. It’s your pa, 
miss.” 

“ My father ! Oh, Sarah, what do you mean ? Is he ill ? 
is he dead ? What is it ? ” 

“ He’s been arrested, miss, for killing Mr. Trent.” 

Sarah spoke in a whisper, but it seemed to her hearers 
as if she had shouted the words at the top of her voice. 
Mrs. Durant pressed her hands together and uttered a 
little scream. Lesley turned deadly white, and laid one 
hand on the back of a chair, as if for support. And the 
old aunt immediately ran into the inner room, and burst 
into tears over Ethel’s almost inanimate form, bewailing 
her, and calling her a poor, injured, heartbroken girl, until 
Ethel opened her great dark eyes, and fixed them upon the 
aged, distorted face with a questioning look. 

“ Lesley !” she breathed. “ I want Lesley.” 

“ Oh, my dearest child, you must do without Lesley 
now. It is not fit that she should come to you.” 

But Ethel’s lips again formed the same sounds : “ I want 
Lesley.” And the old lady continued — 

“ She must not come, dear : you cannot see Lesley 
Brooke again. It is her father who has done this terrible 
thing — blighted your life — destroyed your happiness ” 

And so she would have babbled on had not Ethel all at 
once raised herself in her bed, with white face and flaming 
eyes, and called in tones as clear and resonant as ever — 

“ Lesley ! Lesley ! come back ! ” 

And then the old aunt was silent : silent and amazed. 

From the next room Lesley came, softly and swiftly as 
was her wont. Her face was pale, but her eyes and lips 


270 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


were steady. She went straight to Ethel ; was at once 
encircled by the girl’s arms, and drew Ethel’s head down 
upon her shoulder. 

‘‘Shall I go?” she whispered in Ethel’s ear. 

“ No, no ; don’t leave me.” 

“ You know what they say? Can you trust my father? ” 

“ I trust you both. Stay with me.” 

Lesley raised her head and looked back at the little 
group of meddlesome women who had tried to tear her 
from her friend’s side. At the look they disappeared. 
They dared not say another word after meeting the rebuke 
conveyed in Lesley’s pale, set face and resolute eyes. They 
closed the door behind them, and left the two girls alone. 

For a long time neither spoke. Ethel seemed to have 
relapsed once more into a semi-unconscious state. Lesley 
sat motionless, pillowing her friend’s head against her 
shoulder, and stroking one of her hands with her own. 
Now and tlien hot tears welled over and dropped upon 
Ethel’s dark, curly head, but Lesley did not try to wipe them 
away. She scarcely knew that she was crying : she was 
only aware of a great weight of trouble that had come 
upon her — trouble that seemed to include in its effects all 
that she held most dear. Trouble not only to her friend, 
but to her father, her mother, her lover. Not a shadow of 
doubt as to her father’s innocence rested upon her mind : 
there was no perplexity, no shame — only sorrow and 
anxiety. Not many women could have borne the strain 
of utter silence with such a burden laid on them to bear. 
But to Lesley, even in that hour, Ethel’s trouble was 
greater than her own. 

An hour must have passed away before Ethel murmured, 

“ Lesley — are you there ? ” 

“ Yes, I am with you, darling ; I am here.’^ 

“ You are crying.” 

“ I am crying for you, Ethel, dear.’’ 

For the first time, Ethel’s hand answered to her pressure. 
After a little silence, she spoke again — 

“ I wish I could die — too.” 

“ My poor little Ethel.” 

“ I suppose there is no chance of that. People — like 
me — don’t die. They only suffer — and suffer — and break 
their hearts — and live till they are eighty. Oh, if you 
were kind to me, you would give me something to make 
me die.” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


271 

She shuddered, and crept a little closer to Lesley’s 
bosom. Oh, why must he go — without me — without 
me? ’’she cried. And then she burst out suddenly into 
bitter weeping, and with Lesley’s arms about her she wept 
away some of the perilous stuff” of misery which had 
seemed likely to destroy the balance of her brain. When 
those tears came her reason was saved, and Lesley was 
wise enough to be reassured and not alarmed by them. 

She was very much exhausted when the burst of tears 
was over, and Lesley was allowed to feed her with strong 
soup, which she took submissively from her friend. “ You 
won’t go ? she whispered, when the meal was done. And 
Lesley whispered back : ‘‘ I will not go, darling, so long 
as you want me here.” 

I want you — always.” Then with a gleam of returning 
strength and memory : “What was it they said about your 
father?” 

Lesley shivered. 

Never mind, Ethel, dear,” she said. 

“ But — I know — I remember. That he was — a — oh, I 
can’t say the word. But that is not true.” 

“ I know it is not true. It is a foolish, cruel mistake.” 

“ It could not be true,” Ethel murmured. “ He was 
always kind and good. Tell him — from me — that I don’t 
believe it, Lesley. And don’t let them take you away 
from me.” 

Holding Lesley’s hand in hers, at last she fell asleep ; 
and sleep was the very thing that was likely to restore her. 

The doctor came and went, forbidding the household to 
disturb the quiet of the sick-room ; and after a time, 
Lesley, exhausted by the excitements and anxieties of tlie 
day, laid her head on the pillow and also slept. It was 
late in the afternoon when Maurice Kenyon, stealing softly 
into the room, found the two heads close together on 
one pillow, the arms interlaced, the slumber of one as 
deep as of the other. His eyes filled with tears as he 
looked at the sleeping figures. “ Poor girls ! ” he mut- 
tered to himself. “ Well for them if they can sleep ; but 
I fear that theirs will be a sad awakening.” 

Suddenly Lesley opened her eyes. The color rushed 
to her pale cheeks as she s nv who was regarding her, but 
she had sufficient self-control not to start or move too 
hastily. Ethel altered her position at that moment, and 


272 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


left Lesley free to rise, then sank back to slumber. And, 
obeying a silent motion of Maurice Kenyon’s hand, Lesley 
followed him noiselessly into the dressing-room. 








BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


273 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE EVIDENCE. 

‘‘ She ought not to be left alone : I promised not to leave 
her/’ said Lesley in a low tone. 

I have brought a nurse with me. She can go in and 
sit by the bed until you are ready to return,” said Maurice, 
quietly. Call us, nurse, if my sister wakes and asks for 
us ; but be very careful not to disturb her unnecessarily,’' 

The nurse, whose face Lesley scanned with involuntary 
interest, was gentle and sensible-looking, with kindly eyes 
and a strong, well-shaped mouth. She looked like a woman 
to be trusted ; and Lesley was therefore not sorry to see 
her pass into Ethel’s room. She had felt very conscious 
of her own ignorance of nursing during the past few hours, 
and had not much confidence in the sense or judgment of 
any woman in the house. Maurice made her sit down, 
and then stood looking at her for a moment. 

You are terribly pale,” he said at last. Will you 
come downstairs and let me give you something to eat and 
drink ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, no, thank you. I want nothing. And Ethel may 
need me : I cannot bear to be far away.” 

“ Have you had nothing all day ? It is after five o’clock.” 

She shook her head. 

Then you must eat before I talk to you. I have several 
things to say, and you must have strength to listen. Sit 
still : I will be back directly.” 

He went away, and Lesley leaned back in her chair and 
closed her eyes. She Vas very weary, but even in her 
trouble there was some sweetness for her in the knowledge 
that Maurice was attending to her needs. When he returned 
with wine and food, she roused herself to accept both, 
knowing very well that he would not tell her what she 
wanted to hear until she had done his bidding. The door 
between bed and dressing room was closed ; the house was 
very quiet, and the light was dim. Maurice spoke at last, 
in grave, low tones. 


18 


274 


brookf:s daughter. 


“ I have just come from your father/’ he said. 

Lesley started and clasped her hands. “ Is he at home 
again ? ” 

No. Tliey would not let him go. But take heart — 
we, who know him, will stand by him until he is a free 
man.” 

Then you belie ve^as I believe ? ” she asked, tremu* 
lously. 

Would it be possible for me to do otherwise ? Hasn’t 
he been my friend for many a year ? You have surely no 
need to ask ! ” 

Lesley, looking up at him, stretched out her hand in 
silence. He took it in both his own and kissed it tenderly. 
Seeing her grief, and seeing also her sympathy for another 
woman who grieved, had, for the time being, cured him of 
his anger against her. He had cherished some bitter 
feeling towards her for a while ; but he forgot it now. 

1 am as sure,’^ he said, fervently, that Caspar Brooke 
could not commit murder as I am sure that you could not. 
It is an absurdity to think of it.” 

Then what has made people think of it ? ” asked 
Lesley. How has it come about ? ” 

Maurice paused. There is a mystery somewhere,” he 
said slowly, ‘‘ which is a little difficult to fathom. Can 
you bear to hear the details? Your father told me to tell 
them to you — as gently as I could.” 

‘‘Tell me all — all, please.” 

“ Poor Oliver Trent was found dead early this morning 
on the stair of a lodging-house in Whitechapel. I have 
been to the place myself : it is now under the care of the 
police. He had been beaten about the head ... it 
was very horrible . . . with a thick oaken staff or 

walking stick . . . the stick lay beside him, covered 

with blood, where he was found. The stick was — was your 
father’s, unfortunately : it must have been stolen by some 

ruffian for the purpose — and — and ” 

He stopped short, as if the story were too hard to tell. 
Lesley sat watching his face, which was as pale as her own. 
“ Go on,” she said, quickly. “ What else ? ” 

“ A pocket-book — with gilt letters on the back :• C. B. 
distinctly marked. That was also found on the stairs, as 
if it had dropped from the pocket of some man as he went 
down. And it is proved — indeed, your father tells me so — 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


275 

that he went to that house last night and did not leave it 
until nearly midnight/^ 

But why was he there ? ” 

He went to see the man and woman who lived in the 
top room of that lodging-house. I think you know the 
woman. She was once your maid 

‘‘ Mary Kingston ? She came to our house that very 
afternoon. She must have asked my father to go to see 
her — he spoke kindly of her to me. But why did Mr. 
Trent go there too ? '' 

There have been secrets kept from us which have 
now come to light,” said Maurice, sadly. Oliver went 
there to see his brother Francis, who was ill in bed ; and 
his brother’s wife was no other than the woman who acted 
as your maid, Mary Kingston — or rather Mary Trent. 
Kingston left your house on Saturday, it seems, because 
she had caught sight of her husband in the street : he had 
been very ill, and she felt herself obliged to go home with 
him and put him to bed. He has been in bed, unable to 
rise, she tells me, ever since.” 

‘‘But she — shc^' said Lesley eagerly, “can explain the 
whole matter. She must have heard the fight — the scuffle 
— whatever it was — upon the stairs. She ought to be able 
to tell when father left the house — and when Mr. Trent left 
the house. They did not go together, did they ? ” there 
was a touch of scorn in her voice. 

“ No, they did not go together. But what Mrs. Trent 
alleges is, that your father waited for Oliver on the stairs, 
and attacked him there. It is a malicious, wicked lie — I 
am sure of that. But it is what she says she is willing to 
swear.” 

“Mrs. Trent!” Lesley repeated vaguely. “Mrs. 
Trent ! Do you mean — Kingston ? Kingston swears that 
my father lay in wait for Oliver Trent upon the stairs ? It 
is impossible 1 ” 

“ Yes, Kingston,” Maurice answered, in alow, level voice. 
“It is Kingston who has accused your father of the 
crime.” 

Lesley covered her face with her hands, and for a 
moment or two did not speak. “ It is too terrible,” she 
said at last, not very steadily. “ I do not know how to 
believe it. I always trusted her. Is there nobody worth 
trusting in the world ? Is there no truth and faith any- 
where at all ? ” 


2^6 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


The tears were raining down her cheeks as she spoke. 
Maurice looked at her with wistful tenderness. 

“ Can you ask that question when you have such a 
father ? ” he asked. And I — have I done anything to 
deserve your want of trust ? 

She could only sob out incoherent words by way of 
answer. “ Not you — not my father — I was thinking — of 
others — others I have trusted and been deceived in.” 

‘‘ Oliver Trent,” he said — not as a question so much as 
by way of sad assertion. She draw her handkerchief away 
from her eyes immediately, and gazed at him through her 
tears, with flushed cheeks and panting breath. What did 
he mean ? He did not leave her long in doubt. 

“ Kingston — Mrs. Trent — has told a strange story,” he 
said. “ She avers that Oliver was false — false to my poor 
little sister who believed in him so entirely — false to him- 
self and false to us. They say you knew of this. She says 
that he — he made love to you, that he asked you to marry 
him — to run away with him indeed — so late as last Satur- 
day. She had hidden herself between the folding-doors in 
order to hear what went on. Lesley, is this true ? ” 

She was white enough now. She cast one appealing 
glance at his face, and then said, almost inaudibly— 

‘‘ Don’t tell Ethel. 

“ Then it was true ? ’’ 

“ Quite true ! ” 

Oh, my God ! ” cried Maurice, involuntarily. He did 
not use the words with any profane intention : they escaped 
his lips as a sort of cry of agony, of protest, almost of 
entreaty. He had hoped until this moment that Lesley 
would be able to deny this charge. When she acknow- 
ledged its truth, the conviction of Oliver’s falsity, the sus- 
picion of Lesley’s faith, smote him like a blow. He drew 
back from her a little and looked at her-steadfastly. Lesley 
raised her candid, innocent eyes to his, and, after a 
moment’s silence, made h er defence. 

I could not help it. If Kingston speaks the truth, she 
will tell you that. He locked the door so that I could not 
get out, and then ... I said I would never speak to 
him again. I was never so angry — so ashamed — in all my 
life. You must not think that I — I too — was false to Ethel. 
She is my friend, and I never dreamed of taking him away 
from her. I never cared — in that way — for him, and even 
if I had ” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


277 


“ You never cared ? Did you not love him, too ? ” 

No I no, indeed ! I hated him. If Kingston says so 
she is lying about me, as she is lying about my father. 
You say that you do not believe her when she speaks 
against him : surely you won't believe her when she speaks 
against me ? Can’t you trust my father’s daughter, as well 
as my father?” 

The voice was almost passionate in its pleading : the 
lovely eyes were eloquent of reproach. Maurice felt his 
whole being quiver : he was shaken to the very depths. 
Why should she plead to him in this way if she had no love 
at all for him ? Why should she be so anxious that he 
should trust her? And did he not? He could not look 
into her face and think for one moment that she lied. 

‘‘ I do trust — your father’s daughter,” he said, hoarsely. 
‘‘ I trust her above all women living ! — God knows that I 
do. You did not love Oliver ? It was not to hiin that you 
made some promise you spoke of— some promise against 
engaging yourself? 

‘‘It was to my mother,” said Lesley, simply. “ I am sorry 
that I did not make you understand.” 

He took a quick step nearer. “ May I say more ? ” 

She shook her head. 

“ But — some day ? ” 

“ Not now,” she answered, softly. But a very hiint and 
tremulous smile quivered for one moment on her lips. It 
is very wrong to talk of ourselves just now. Go on with 
your story — tell me about my dear, dearest father.”- 

“ I will,” said Maurice. “ I will do exactly what you 
wish— now ” — with a great accent on the last two 
words. “ We will talk about that promise at a more fitting 
time, Lesley — I may call you Lesley, may I not? There 
is no harm in that, for you are like a sister to my poor 
Ethel, and you may as well let me be a brother to you, 
dear, yW/ now. Well, Lesley ” — how he lingered over the 
name ! — “Mrs. Trent says that she returned to your house 
on Monday afternoon in order to warn your father of what 
was going on ” 

“ Oh ! Did she really ? ” 

“Yes, for your father tells me she did so. She also told 
him various stories of Oliver’s baseness, which he felt it his 
duty to inquire into, and in order that he might have an 
interview with Oliver, she arranged with him to come that 


278 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


night to the house in Whitechapel, where she and her hus- 
band were living. There she was to confront him with 
Oliver, and she said that in her presence he would not 
dare to deny that her tales were true.’^ 

But why did father agree to that ? Why did he want 
to find out ? 

“ For Ethel’s sake. He wanted to protect her. If Mrs. 
Trent could prove her stories, he meant to expose Oliver to 
Ethel and myself, if it were but an hour before her mar- 
riage ” 

‘‘And why didn’t he? ” demanded Lesley, breathlessly. 

“Because” — here comes in your father’s evidence — 
“ your father assures me that when he reached the house that 
night and confronted Oliver, the woman took back every 
word that she had uttered, and declared that it was all a 
lie. And Oliver, of course, persisted that he had done 
nothing amiss. Your father says he was so much tempted 
to strike Oliver to the ground — for lie did not believe in 
Kingston’s retractation — that he flung his stick out upon 
the landing lest he should use it too effectually. He forgot 
to pick it up, and came away without it. The pocket-book 
must of course have fallen out of his pocket as he left the 
house.” 

“ Then he could not convict Mr. Trent of anything ? ” 

“ No, and so he did not feel justified in meddling. But 
he wishes that he had gone to Ethel at once — or tliat I had 
been at home and that he had come to me. He is reproach- 
ing himself terribly for his silence now.” 

“ As I have been reproaching myself for mine,” said 
Lesley. 

“ You have no need. Ethel would never have believed 
the stories — and as Mrs. Trent denied them again, I think 
that Oliver would have carried the day. But let her deny 
them as she will, I believe that they were true, and that 
Oliver was a villain. Our poor Ethel may live to bless the 
day when she was delivered from him.” • 

“ I am afraid she will never believe us, or forgive us if 
she does,” sighed Lesley. But what else happened? ” 

“ Your father left the building, after a long and angry 
conversation, about midnight. Oliver remained behind. Of 
course your father knows nothing more. But Mrs. Trent 
says that Oliver went away ten minutes later, and that she 
then heard loud words and the sound of a struggle upon 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER, 


279 


the stairs. Fights are too common in that neighborhood 
to excite much remark. She, however, feeling anxious, 
stole down the upper flight of stairs, and distinctly saw Mr. 
Brooke and her brother-in-law struggling together. She 
maintains that Mr. Brooke’s stick was in his hand.” 

How wickedly false ! Why did she not scream if she 
saw such a sight ? ” 

She was afraid. And she says that she did not think 
it would come to — vmrder. She crept back to her room 
again, and in a few minutes everything was quiet. Only — 
in the early morning the dead body of Oliver Trent was 
found upon the stairs, and then she gave information as 
to what she had seen and heard ? ” 

There was a sliort silence. Then Lesley said, very tremu- 
lously — It sounds like a plot — a plot against my dear 
father’s good name ! ” 

And a very cleverly concocted plot too,” thought 
Maurice to himself in silent rage ; but he dared not say so 
mucli aloud. He only answered, tenderly — 

Such a plot can never come to good, Lesley. You and 
I together — we will unravel it — we will clear your father, 
and bring him back to the world again.” 

He is not coming home just yet, then ? ” 

‘‘ I am afraid — dear, do not tremble so — he will have to 
take his trial. But he will be acquitted, you will see.” 

She let him press her fingers to his lips again, and made 
no outward sign ; but the two looked into each other’s 
eyes, and each was conscious of the presence of a deadly 
fear. 


28 o 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A VAIN APPEAL. 

Lesley went home to sleep, and learned from her aunt 
the details of her father^s arrest. But he will be back in 
a few hours, said Miss Brooke, obstinately. They will 
be obliged to let him ago. They will accept bail, of course. 
Mr. Kenyon thinks they will.” 

Has Mr. Kenyon been here ? 

‘‘ Oh, yes ; he brought me a message from Caspar. 
What a horrible thing it is ! But the ridiculous — absurd — 
part of it is that your father should be accused. Why, 
your father was very friendly with Oliver Trent — at least 
he used to be ! Then Miss Brooke paused, and fired an 
unexpected question at her niece. Have you any reason 
to think he was not ? ” 

Lesley winced and hesitated. “I don’t think he liked 
Mr. Trent very much/’ she said, at last; “but that is a 
different thing ” 

“ From killing him ? I should think so ! ” said Doctor 
Sophy, in a high tone of voice. She was in her dressing- 
gown, and sitting before the fire that had been lighted in 
her own little sanctum upstairs ; but she was not smoking 
as she was usually at that hour. The occasion was too 
serious for cigarettes : Doctor Sophy was denying herself. 
Perhaps that was the reason why she looked so haggard 
and so angry, as she turned suddenly and spoke to her 
niece in a somewhat excited way. 

“ What made him unfriendly ? Do you not know ? It 
was because you flirted with Oliver Trent ! I really think 
you did, Lesley, And I know your father thought so 
too.” 

“ Then he ought to have been vexed with me, not with 
Oliver,” said Lesley, standing her ground, but turning 
very pale. 

“ Yes, yes, but you are a girl, and he did not like to 
blame you. He spoke rather strongly about Oliver Trent 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


281 


to me. However, it is no use saying so now. We had 
better keep that phase of the matter as quiet as we can.*' 
“ Aunt Sophy,’* said Lesley, in a tremulous tone, you 
don’t mean — you don’t think — that my — my flirtings as 
you call it, with Mr. Trent will be spoken of and tend to 
hurt my father — my father’s good name ? ” 

Aunt Sophy stared at her. ‘‘ Of course it would hurt 
your father’s chances if it were talked about,” she said, 
rather sharply. ‘‘ I don’t see how it could do otherwise. 
People would say that he might have quarrelled with Oliver 
about you, you know. But we must try to keep the matter 
as quiet as we can. Tin prepared to swear that they were 
bosom-friends, and that I never heard Caspar say a word 
against him ; and you had better follow my example.” 

But, Aunt Sophy — if I can’t ” 

“ If you want to come the Jeanie Deans’ business, my 
dear,” said Miss Brooke, you had better reflect that per- 
sonal application to the Queen for a pardon will not help 
you very much now-a-days. I must confess that, although 
I admire Jeanie Deafls very much, 1 don’t intend to emu- 
late her. It’s my opinion too that most women will tell 
lies for the sake of men they love, but not for the sake of 
women.’' 

Oh, Aunt Sophy ! ” 

^Ht is no good making exclamations,” said Aunt Sophy, 
with unusual irritability. ‘‘ If you are different from all 
other women, I can’t help it. I once thought that I was 
different myself, but I find I am as great a fool as any of 
them. There, go to bed, child ! Things will turn out all 
right by and by. Nobody could be so absurd as to believe 
ill of your father.” 

You think it will be all right ? ” said Lesley, wistfully. 

Don’t ask me to believe in a God in heaven, if things 
go badly with Caspar,” said Miss Brooke, curtly. Haven’t 
I lived ten years in the house with the man, and don’t I 
know that he would not hurt a fly ? He’s the gentlest soul 
alive, although he looks so big and strong : the gentlest, 

softest-hearted, most generous But I suppose it is no 

good saying all that to your mother’s daughter?” — and 
Miss Brooke picked up a paper-covered volume that had 
fallen to her feet, and began to read. 

I am my father’s daughter too,” said Lesley, with 
rather tremulous dignity, as she turned away. She was too 


282 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


indignant with Miss Brooke to wish her good-night, and 
meant to leave the room without another word. But Miss 
Brooke, dropping her book on her red flannel lap, and 
looking uneasily over her shoulder at her niece’s retreating 
figure, would not let her go. 

‘‘ Come, Lesley, don’t be angry,” she said. I am so 
upset that I hardly know what I am saying. Come here 
and kiss me, child, I did not mean to vex you.” 

And Lesley came back and kissed her aunt, but in 
silence, for her heart was sore within her. Was it perhaps 
true — or partially true — that she had been the cause of the 
misery that had come upon them all ? Indirectly and 
partially, unintentionally and without consciousness of 
wrong-doing — and yet she could not altogether acquit 
herself of blame. Had she been more reserved, more 
guarded in her behavior, Oliver Trent would never have 
fallen in love with her. Would this have mended 
matters ? If, as she gathered, the sole reason of her 
father’s visit to tlie Trents had been to assure himself of 
the true nature of her relations with Oliver — her cheeks 
burned as she put the matter in that light, even to herself 
— why, then, she could not possibly divest herself of 
responsibility. Of course slie could not for one moment 
imagine that her father had lifted his hand against Oliver ; 
but his visit to the house shortly before the murder gave a 
certain air of plausibility to the tale : and for this Lesley 
felt herself to blame. 

She went to her own room and lay down, but she could 
not sleep. There was a hidden joy at the bottom of her 
heart — a joy of which she was half ashamed. The relief 
of finding that Maurice was still her friend — it was so that 
she phrased it to herself — was indeed very great. And 
there was a strange and beautiful hope for the future, which 
she dared not look at yet. For it seemed to her as if it 
would be a sort of treason to dream of love and joy and 
hope for herself when those that she loved best — and she 
herself also — were involved in one common downfall, one 
common misfortune of so terrible a kind. The thought of 
her father — detained, she knew not where : she had a 
childish vision of a felon’s cell, very different indeed from 
the reality of the plain but fairly comfortable room with 
which Mr. Caspar Brooke had been accommodated ? and 
3he shuddered at the thought of the days before him, of 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER ^ 


2S3 

the public examinations, of the doubt and shame and 
mystery in which poor Oliver Trent^s death was enwrapped. 
She thought of Ethel, now under the influence of a strong 
narcotic, from which she would not awake until the morn- 
ing ; and she shrank in imagination from that awakening 
to despair. And she thought of others who were more or 
less concerned in the tragedy ; of Mary Kingston — though 
she could not remember her without a shudder — of Mrs. 
Romaine, who had loved her brother so tenderly ; and of 
Lady Alice, the woman whose husband was in prison for 
a crime of which Lesley was willing to swear that he was 
innocent. 

When her thoughts once reached her mother, they stayed 
and would not be diverted. She could not sleep : she 
could think of nothing but tlie mother and the father whom 
she loved. And she wept over the failure of her schemes 
for their reunion. All hope of that was at an end. It was 
impossible that Lady Alice should not believe Iiim guilty. 
She had always judged him harshly, and taken the worst 
possible view of his behavior. Lesley remembered that 
she had not — in common parlance — had a good word to 
say for him,’' when she spoke of him in the convent par- 
lor. What would she say now, and how could Lesley make 
her see the truth ? 

The fruit of her reflections became evident at breakfast- 
time next morning. Lesley came downstairs with her hat 
on and a mantle over her arm. 

“Where are you going?” Miss Brooke asked. “Not 
to poor Ethel, I hope ? I am very sorry for her, but really, 
Lesley 

“ I am going to mamma,” said Lesley. 

“ Going to Well, upon my word ! Lesley, I did 

think you had a little more feeling for your father ! 

Going Well, I shall not countenance it. I shall not 

let your boxes go out of the house. It is simply dis- 
graceful.” 

“ But I don’t want my boxes,” said Lesley, rather for- 
lornly helping herself to a cup of coffee. “ What have my 
boxes to do with it. Aunt Sophy ? I shall be back in an 
hour. Mr. Kenyon said we should be able to see father 
to-day, and I do not want to be away when he comes.” 

“ Then — then you don’t mean to stay with your 
mamma ? ” gasped Aunt Sophy. 


284 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER, 


Lesley could not help a little laugh, but the tears came 
into her brown eyes as she lauglied. “ Would you mind 
very much if I did, Aunt Sophy ? she asked, setting down 
her cup of coffee. 

‘‘ I should mind for this reason,’* said Miss Brooke, 
stoutly, that if you ran away from your father’s house 
now, people would say that you thought him guilty. It 
would go against him terribly. Sooner than that, I would 
lock you into your own room and prevent your going by 
main force.” 

I believe you would,” said Lesley, and so would I, 
in your place. Aunt Sophy. But you need not be afraid. 
I am as proud of my father and as full of faith in him as 
even you can be ; and if I go to see my mother, it is only 
that I may tell her so, and let her understand that she has 
no cause to be afraid for him. The color came to her face 
as she spoke, and she lifted her head so proudly that Aunt 
Sophy felt — for a moment or two — slightly abashed. 

“ I will be back in an hour,” Lesley went on, firmly, 

and I hope that Mr. Kenyon will wait for me if he comes 
before I return.” 

‘‘ Am I to tell him where you have gone ? ” askea Miss 
Brooke, with a slight touch of sharpness in her voice. 

And Lesley replied, ‘‘ Certainly. And my father, too, if 
you see him before I do. I am not doing anything 
wrong.” 

Greatly to her surprise. Miss Brooke got up and kissed 
her. ‘‘My dear,” she said, “you are very like your 
father, and I am sure you won’t do anything to hurt his 
feelings ; but are you quite sure that you need go to Lady 
Alice just at present? ” 

“ Quite sure, Aunt Sophy.” And then Miss Brooke 
sighed, shook her head, and let her go, with the air of one 
who sees a person undertake a hopeless quest. For she 
fancied that Lesley was going to make an attempt to 
reconcile the husband and wife who had been so long sepa- 
rated, and she did not believe that any such attempt was 
likely to succeed. But she had not fathomed Lesley’s plan 
aright. 

The girl took a hansom and drove at once to her mother’s 
house. ^ She knew well where it was situated, but she had 
never visited it before. It was a small house, but in a good 
position, close to the Green Park, and at any other moment 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


285 


Lesley would have been struck by the air of distinction 
that it had already achieved. It was painted differently 
from the neighboring houses : the curtains and flower- 
boxes in the windows were remarkably fresh and dainty, 
the neat maid who opened the front door was neater and 
smarter than other people’s maids. Lesley was informed 
that her ladyship was not up yet ; and the servant seemed 
to think that she had better go away on receiving this 
information. 

I will come in,” said Lesley, quietly. I am Miss 
Brooke. You can take my name up to her first, if you like, 
but I want to see her at once.” 

The maid looked doubtful, but at this moment Mrs. 
Dayman was seen crossing the hall, and her exclamation 
of mingled pleasure and dismay caused Lesley to be 
admitted without further parley. 

Lady Alice was up, but not fully dressed ; she was break- 
fasting in a dressing-room or boudoir, which opened out 
of ber own sleeping apartment. As soon as Lesley entered 
she started up ; and the girl noticed at the first glance that 
her mother was looking ill, but perhaps the richly- tinted 
plush morning-gown, that fell round her slender figure in 
long straight folds, made her look taller and thinner than 
usual. Certainly her face was worn, and her eyelids were 
reddened as if from weeping or sleeplessness. 

‘‘ Lesley ! my darling ! have you come back to me ? ” 

She folded the girl in her arms and pressed her lips 
to the soft cheek, a little sob breaking from her as she 
spoke. 

“ Only for half an hour, mamma. Just to speak to you 
for a few minutes about //m.” 

‘‘ Him ! Your father 1 Oh, Lesley, what does it all 
mean ? ” 

Poor mamma ! it must have been a great shock to you. 
Sit down, and I will tell you all that I know.” 

And gently pressing Lady Alice back into a seat, Lesley 
took a footstool at her mother’s knee and told her the story. 
Lady Alice listened in silence. With one hand she stroked 
Lesley’s hair : with the other she held Lesley’s fingers, and 
Lesley noticed that it twitched from time to time as if in 
nervous agitation. Otherwise, however, she was very 
calm. 

“ And so,” she said, at last, ‘‘ you came to tell me the 
story as you know it. . . But, my child, you have told me 


2^6 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


very little that I did not know already. Even in last night 
papers the relationship between Oliver Trent and these 
people in Whitechaj)el was commented on. And your own 
name, my darling — that did not escape. Did you think I 
should misunderstand you?” 

Oh, no, mamma — not misunderstand me^ but I was 
afraid lest you might misunderstand some one else.” 

Lady Alice was silent. 

I was afraid,” said Lesley, softly, lest the years that 
have gone by should have made you forget his gentleness 
and nobleness of soul — lest for one moment you should 
think him capable of a mean or vile action. I came to tell 
you, dearest mother, how impossible it was for us — who 
know him — to credit for one moment an accusation of this 
kind. If all the world said that he was guilty, you and I, 
mamma, would know that he was not.” 

“ My child, my darling, you must speak for yourself. Do 
not try to speak for me ! ” 

“ Mother, won't you give me a message for him ? ” 

“ Are you going to see him, Lesley ? ” 

‘‘ I hope so. Mr, Kenyon said he would take me.” 

There was a short silence, and then Lesley lifted her 
eyes to her mother's face. She was not encouraged by what 
she saw there. It was pale, sad, immobile, and, as it 
seemed to Lesley, very cold. 

“ Mother, I must go. Won’t you send him a message ? ” 

“ I have no message, Lesley.” 

Not one little word ? ” 

“Notone.” And then, as if trying to excuse herself 
Lady Alice added, hurriedly, “ there is nothing that I can 
say which would please him. He would not care for any 
message from me.” 

“ He would care to hear that you trusted him ! '’ 

“ I do not think so,” said Lady Alice, with a little shake 
of her head. 

Lesley rose to her feet, silenced for the moment, but not 
altogether vanquished. She put her arms round her 
mother's neck. 

“ Blit you do trust him, mamma ? Tell me that, at any 
rate.” 

For almost the first time within Lesley’s memory Lady 
Alice made a gesture of impatience. 

“ I cannot be catechised, Lesley. Let me alone. You 
do not understand.” 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


^87 


And Lesley was obliged to go away, feeling sorrowfully 
that she had failed in her mission* Perhaps, however, she 
had succeeded better than she knew. 


288 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

‘‘ AT YOUR SIDE.*’ 

Caspar Brooke was not as yet debarred the privilege of 
seeing his friends, and on the morning after his arrest he 
had a great many visitors, including, of course, Maurice 
Kenyon and his lawyer. Maurice was busying himself 
earnestly on his friend*s behalf ; and, considering the posi- 
tion that Brooke held, the esteem felt for him in high places, 
and the amount of interest that was being brought to bear 
on the authorities, there was little doubt but that he would 
be let out on bail in a day or two, even if the proceedings 
were not quashed altogether. Some delay, however, there 
was sure to be owing to the pertinacity of Mary Trent*s as- 
sertion that she saw him struggling with Oliver on the stairs, 
but in the meantime his detention was allowed to press as 
lightly upon him as possible. 

It was noon before Lesley saw him, and when she sprang 
to his side and threw her arms around his neck, with a 
new demonstrativeness of manner, she noticed that his 
brows lifted a little, and that he smiled with a look of posi- 
tive pleasure and relief. 

‘‘ So you have come ? *’ he said, holding her to him as if 
he did not like to let her go. ‘‘ I began to wonder if you 
had deserted.me ! ” 

‘‘ Oh, father ! Why, I have been waiting ever so long 
for Mr. Grierson to go.*’ 

And before that ? *’ he asked, in rather a peculiar 

tone. 

Before that — I went to see mamma.’* And Lesley 
looked bravely up into his face. 

“ That was an infringement of contract, as I suppose you 
know,** said Caspar, smiling persistently. But it does 
not matter very much. What did ‘ mamma * say to you ? ** 

I — don't — know,” murmured Lesley, confused by the 
question. “ Nothing very much.** 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


289 


‘‘ Nothing. Ah, I know what that means. He turned 
away from her, and, sitting down, leaned his elbows upon 
a table, and played with his beard. It was useless, Lesley,’' 
he said, quietly, after a few minutes' silence. “ Your mother 
is the last person whose sympathies will be enlisted on my 
side." 

Lesley tried to speak but suddenly felt her voice fail her ; 
so instead of speaking she knelt down by her father, leaned 
her head upon his shoulder, and burst into very heartfelt 
tears. 

Little one," said Caspar, I’m afaid wc liave both 
got ourselves into a mess." 

It did not sound comforting, but Lesley stayed her tears 
to listen. 

I have been talking to Grierson," her father continued, 
“ and we have agreed that there must be no suppression of 
the truth. My dislike to Oliver Trent has been commented 
on already, and I must give a reason for it. Lesley, my 
dear, you will have to contribute your own evidence as to 
the reason." 

Lesley looked up with terrified, wide-open eyes. Do 
you mean that I shall have to say " 

You will have to go into the witness-box and tell what 
you know, or rather answer the questions that are asked 
you.'’ 

But will that be — best — for you ? ’’ She put the question 
with some difficulty. 

That is not the point. What we have to do is to tell 
the truth, and leave the result to others." 

— To God?" Lesley interposed, almost involuntarily. 
Caspar Brooke's lip moved with a grave smile. 

Well, yes, to God if you will have it so — we use different 
terms, but perhaps we have the same meaning. We must 
at any rate leave the result to the working of various laws 
v/hich we cannot control, and to fight against these laws of 
nature is wrong-doing — or sin. Therefore, Lesley, you will 
have to tell the truth, whether it may seem to be for my 
good or my harm.’' 

She glanced at him rather piteously, and her eyes filled 
with tears. Aunt Sophy’s words recurred to her mind ; 
but they seemed feeble and futile in the light of his courage 
and steadfastness. Aunt Sophy had been wrong — so much 


19 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


^90 

was clear to Lesley ; and truth was best under all possible 
circumstances. 

“ It is for Ethel I am sorry/^ she murmured. 

Yes, poor Ethel. It is true then — what that woman 
said — that Oliver Trent was in love with you ? 

“ I could not help it, father. I don’t think it was my 
fault. I did not know till it was too late.” 

I am not blaming you, my dear. When I came into 
the drawing-room that day — do you remember ? — what 
had happened then ? Can you bear to tell me ? ” 

She hid her face on his shoulder as she answered, He 
was speaking foolislily. I think he wanted to — to kiss me 
. . . . I was very glad that you came in.” 

Was that the first time ? ” 

Yes, the first. And I did not even see him again until 
that Saturday night, when he found me in the study — and 


“ And asked you to run away with him ? ” 

Yes. Tndeed, I had not led him to think that I would 
do any such thing, father. I told him never to speak to 
me again. If it had not been for Ethel’s sake, I think I 
should have called someone — but I did not like to make a 
disturbance.” 

‘‘ No, dear, no. And yoti — yourself— did not care 
for him ? ” 

“ Oh no, no, no ! ” 

It has been a terrible tangle — and the knot has been 
cut very rudely,” said Mr. Brooke, in a musing tone. ‘‘ Of 
one thing I am quite certain, we were not fit to have the 
care of you, Lesley — your aunt and I. You would never 
have been in this position, my poor child, if we had looked 
after you.” 

‘‘ It isn’t that which troubles me,” said Lesley, trying to 
steady her voice. It is — that you have to bear the brunt 
of it all. If it had not been for me you would never have 
been here. It has been my fault ! ” 

“ Not your fault, child,” said her father. ‘‘ The fault did 
not lie with you, but with that unfortunate young man, for 
whom I am truly sorry. Don’t be morbid, Lesley ; look 
things straight in the face, and don’t blame yourself unless 
you are perfectly sure that you deserve to be blamed.” 

And there the conference ended, for Miss Brooke 
arrived at that moment, and Lesley thouglit it advisable to 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


291 


leave the choice of a subject of conversation in her hands. 
Caspar had many visitors that day, and many letters of 
advice and condolence, for few men were blessed — or 
cursed — with as many friends as he. Among the letters 
that reached liim was a note without signature, which he 
read hastily, and as hastily concealed when he had read it. 
This note was written in uneven, crooked characters, as if 
the writer's hand had shaken as she wrote, and ran as 
follows : — 

‘‘fought not to write, but how can I keep silence? 
There is nothing that I am not capable of bearing for my 
friends. If you will but confide in me — I am ready to do, 
to bear, to suffer anything — to forgive anything. Let me 
see you : I can then speak more freely. If you should be 
set at liberty in a day or two, I shall hear. You can then 
•come to me : if not, I will come to you. But you need 
have no fear for me : 1 shall take means to prevent recog- 
nition." 

The envelope was plain and of common texture ; but 
the note-paper was hand-made, with a faint, fine odor as 
of some sweet-smelling Eastern wood, and bore in one cor- 
ner the letters “ R. R.," intertwined in deep blue tints. 
There was no doubt in Caspar’s mind as to the person from 
whom it came. 

He received it about three o’clock in the afternoon. If 
he wished to decline the proposed interview, he knew that 
he must write at once. In his heart he knew also that it 
would be better for him and better for her that the inter- 
view should be declined. What had he to do with Rosalind 
Romaine ? He was accused of murdering her brother : it 
was not seemly that she should see him — even although the 
world were not to know of the visit. The world would know 
sooner or later — that was the worst of it : ultimately, the 
world knows everything. But why should she wish to see 
him? Had she information to impart? If she had, it would 
be foolish, from merely conventional reasons, to refuse her 
admittance, supposing tliat she really wished to come. And 
in a day or two at most he would certainly be able to go, if 
necessary, to her. 

But the fact was, he did not believe that she had any 
information to impart. She did not say so. Probably she 
only wished to express her faitli in him, and to assure him 
of her friendship. Rosalind had been his friend through 


292 BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 

many a long year. She had always shown herself kind 
and sympathetic — in spite of one or two interludes of cold- 
ness and general oddity which Caspar had never felt able 
to understand. It would be pleasant enough to hear her 
say that she trusted him — he could not help feeling that. 
For, although he had passed the matter off very lightly 
when talking to Lesley, he was secretly hurt at the absence 
of any message from his wife. He could almost have 
worked himself into a rage at the thought of it. Does 
she, too, think me guilty ? " he asked himself. “ She ought 
to know me better, although she does not love me ! She 
ought to know. And she does know, but she is too cold 
and too proud to say so. Poor, warm-hearted Lesley has 
tried to win her sympathy for me and failed. Well, I never 
expected otherwise : she never gave me what I wanted — 
sympathy, understanding, or love ! And how can she 
blame me ” — the thought stole unawares into his mind — 
“ if I turn for sympathy to one who offers it ? 

Yes, Rosalind would sympathize, and there would be no 
harm in listening to her gentle words. He had the pen in 
his hand, paper and ink before liim : a word would be 
enough, if he wished to stay her visit. But he would not 
write it : if she liked to come, she might come — he would 
be glad to see her. Besides, her letter wanted explana- 
tion : for what had she to forgive ? ” 

He pushed the writing materials away from him, and 
went to the fireplace, wliere a small fire was burning very 
dimly. The day was cloudy, and the afternoon was drawing 
in. He crushed the coal with the heel of his boot in order 
to make a flame leap up ; then leaned his elbow on the 
narrow mantelpiece and gazed down into the glowing 
embers. 

The door opened and closed again behind him, but at 
first he did not look up. He thought that the attendant 
had come to light the gas or bring him some tea. But 
when he heard no further sound, he suddenly stirred and 
looked up ; and in the dim light he saw beside him the 
figure of a woman, cloaked and veiled. 

Was it Rosalind? No, it was too tall for Rosalind Ro- 
mainc. Not Lesley ? — though it had a look of her ! And 
then his heart gave a tremendous leap (although no one 
would have suspected it. for his massiv^e form and bearded 
face remained as motionless and calm as ever), it 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


293 


dawned upon him that the visitor was none other tha:i 
Lesley’s mother, his wife, Alice Brooke, who had quitted 
him in anger twelve years before. 

‘‘ I beg your pardon,” he said, courteously. I did not 
see — I had no idea who it was. Will you not sit down ? ” 

He handed her a chair, with a bow as formal as that of 
a complete stranger. Perhaps the formality was inevitable. 
Lady Alice put her hand on the back of the chair, and felt 
that she was trembling. 

I hope I am not intruding,” she said, in a voice as 
formal as his own. 

Not at all. It was most kind of you to come. Pray 
sit down.” 

She seated herself in silence, and then put up her veil. 
He remained standing, and for a moment or two the hus- 
band and wife looked each other steadily in the face, with 
a sort of curiosity and with a sort of wonder too. The 
years had not dealt unkindly with either of them. Lady 
Alice had kept her slender grace of figure and her gentle- 
ness of expression, but the traces of sorrow and anxiety 
were so visible upon her delicate face that Caspar felt a 
sudden impulse of pity towards the woman who had suffered 
in her loneliness more than he had perhaps thought pos- 
sible. As she sat and looked at him, a certain pathetic 
quality showing itself with more than usual vividness in her 
soft eyes and drooping mouth, he was conscious of a 
desire to take her in his arms and console her for all the 
past. But he caught back the impulse with an inward 
laugh of scorn. She had no doubt come to run needles 
into him, as she used to do in those unlucky days of pov- 
erty and struggle. She had a knack of looking pretty and 
sweet while she was doing it, he remembered. It would 
not do to show any weakness now. 

And she — what did she think of him ? She was less 
absorbed with the consideration of any change in him than 
with what she intended to say. What impressed her most 
were the inflections of his quiet, musical voice — a voice as 
unroughened and as gentle as when it wooed her in her 
father’s Northern Castle years before ! She had forgotten 
its power, but it made her tremble now from head to foot 
with a sort of terror that was not without charm. It was so 
cold a voice — so cold and calm 1 She felt that if it once 
grew tender and caressing her strengtli would fail her alto- 


294 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


gether. But there was not much fear of tenderness from 
him — to her. 

After that involuntary and rather awkward pause, Lady 
Alice recollected herself, and spoke first. 

‘‘ You must be very much surprised to see me? 

I am delighted, of course. I could wish ’’ — with a 
slight smile — that the apartment was more worthy of you, 
and that the circumstances were less disagreeable ; but I 
am unfortunately not able to alter these details.” 

And it is exactly to these details that you owe my 
visit,*’ said Lady Alice, with unexpected calmness. 

Then I ought to be grateful to them, no doubt.” 

She moved uneasily, as if the studied conventionality of 
his tone jarred on her a little ; and then she said, with an 
effort that made her words sound brusque, 

“ I mean that under ordinary circumstances I should 
not have come to see you. But these are so strange — so 
extraordinary — that you will perhaps pardon the intrusion. 
I felt — on reflection — that it was only right for me to come 
— to express ” 

She faltered, and he took advantage of her hesitation to 
say, with a quiet smile — 

‘‘ I am very much obliged to you. But you should not 
have taken all this trouble. A note would have answered 
the purpose just as well. I suppose you wish to express 
your indignation at the little care I seem to have taken of 
Lesley. You cannot blame me more severely than I blame 
myself. If she had been under your care I have no doubt 
we should not be in our present dilemma ; but it is no use 
fretting over what is past — or inevitable. I can only say 
that I am exceedingly sorry. Will you not loosen your 
cloak? This room is rather warm. I can’t very well ring 
for tea, I am afraid. You should call on me at Woburn 
Place, if you want tea.” 

She loosened her cloak a little at the throat as he sug- 
• gested. She had taken off her gloves, and he could see 
that her slender white hands were trembling. Somehow it 
occurred to him that he had spoken unkindly — but he did 
not know how or why. His words were commonplace 
enough. But it was his tone that had been cruel. 

I did not come to make any reproaches or complaints,” 
she said at last, in a low voice. 

No. That was very good of you. I have to thank 
you, then, for your forbearance.” 


BROOKE'^S DAUGHTER. 


295 

There was still coldness, still something perilously like 
scorn, in his tone. It was unbearable to Lady Alice. 

Why do you talk in that way ? '' she broke out, sud- 
denly. ‘‘I came to say something quite different; and 
you speak as if you wanted to taunt me — to insult me — to 
hurt me in every possible way ? I do not understand what 
you mean/^ 

^‘You never did,” said Caspar. The scorn had gone 
now, and the voice had grown stern. ‘‘ It is useless for us 
to talk together at all. You have made intercourse im- 
possible. I have no desire to hurt or taunt or insult you, 
as you phrase it; but, if I am to speak the truth, I must 
say that I feel very strongly that it is to you ard your 
behavior that we owe the greater part of this trouble. If 
you had been at my side, if Lesley had been under a 
mother^s wing, sheltered as only a mother could shelter 
her, there never would have been an opportunity for that 
man Trent’s clandestine approaches, which will put a 
stigma on that poor child for the rest of her life, and may 
— for aught I know — endanger my own neck ! I could put 
up with the loss and harm to myself ; but once and for all 
let me say to you, Alice, that you have neglected your 
duty as a mother as much as I have neglected mine as a 
father ; and that if you had been in your proper place all 
this ruin and disgrace and misery might never have come 
about.” 

The broken and vehement tones of his voice showed 
that his feelings were powerfully affected. Lady Alice 
listened in perfect silence, and kept silence for some 
minutes after the conclusion of his speech. Caspar, lean- 
ing with one shoulder against the mantelpiece, looked 
frowningly before him, as if he were unconscious of the 
fact that she had taken her handkerchief out of her muff, 
and was pressing it to her cheeks and eyes. But in reality 
he was painfully alive to every one of her movements, and 
expected a plaintive rejoinder to his accusations. But 
none came. The silence irritated him, as it had formerly 
irritated him with Lesley. He was obliged at last to ask 
a question. 

‘‘ Since you say you did not come to reproach me, may 
I ask the motive of your visit ? ” he asked. 

I scarcely think that it is of any use to tell you now,” 
said his wife, quietly. She had got rid of her tears now. 


296 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


and had put her handkerchief away. ‘‘ I had a sort of 
fancy that you might like me to tell you with my own lips 
something that I felt rather strongly, but you would 
probably resent it — and it is only a trifle after all.” 

She rose from her chair and drew her fur-lined cloak 
closely round her, as if preparing to depart. 

I should like to hear it — if I am not troubling you too 
much,” said Caspar. 

She averted her eyes and began slowly to draw on her 
gloves. It is really nothing— I came on a momentary 
impulse. I have not seen you for a good many years, and 
we parted with very angry words on our lips, did we not ? 
— but I wanted to say that — although you were sometimes 
angry — I never knew you do a cruel thing — you were al- 
ways kind — kindest of all to creatures that were weak 
(except, perhaps to me) ; and I am quite sure — sure as 
that I stand here — that you never did the thing of which 
they are accusing you. There ! ” — and she looked straight 
into his face — ‘‘ it is a little thing, no doubt : you have 
hosts of friends to say the same thing to you : but my tri- 
bute is worth having, perhaps, because, after all, I am 
your wife — and in some ways I do understand ! ” 

Caspar’s face worked strangely : he bit his lip hard as 
he looked at her. 

‘‘You are generous, Alice,” he said, in a low voice, after 
a pause that seemed eternal to her. 

“ Oh, no. Why should you call it generous ? I only 
wanted to say this — and also — that if I can be of any use 
to you now, I am ready. A little thing sometimes turns 
the course of public opinion. If I were to go to Woburn 
Place — to stay with Lesley, for instance — so that all the 

world could see that I believed in you ” 

“ But — I shall be at Woburn Place myself in a day or 

two, on bail ; and then ” 

“ I could stay,” said Lady Alice, again looking at him. 
Then her eyes dropped and the color mounted to her fore- 
head. He made a sudden step towards her. 

“ Alice — is it possible — after all these years ” 

“ No, it is not possible,” she said, with a little laugh 
which yet had something in it of a sob, “ and I don’t 
think we should ever get on together — and I don’t love 
you at all, except for Lesley’s sake — but, just until this 
horrible affair is over, if I might show everybody that I 


BROOKE DAUGHTER, 


297 


have all possible faitli in you, and that I know you to be 
good and upright and honorable — ^just till then, Caspar, I 
should like to be at your side.” 

But whether Caspar heard the whole of this speech must 
remain for ever doubtful, as, long before its close, he had 
taken her in his arms and was sealing the past between 
them with a long kiss which might verily be called the 
kiss of peace. 


298 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

‘‘ OUT ON bail/' 

Miss Brooke was electrified. Such a thing had never 
occurred to her as possible. After years of separation, of 
dispute, of ill-feeling on either side, here was Lady Alice 
appearing in her husband^s house, and expressing a desire 
to remain in it. She came to Woburn Place on the evening 
after her interview with Caspar, and at once made known 
her wishes to Doctor Sophy. 

It was a curious interview. Miss Brooke sat bolt up- 
right on a sofa, with an air of repressed indignation which 
was exceedingly striking: Lady Alice, half enveloped in 
soft black furs, was leaning back in the lowest and most 
luxurious chair the room afforded, with rather more the air 
of the g7'ande da7ne than she actually wished to convey. 
In reality her heart was very soft, and there was moisture 
in her eyes ; but it was difficult for her to shake off an 
appearance of cold indifference to all the world when Miss 
Sophia Brooke, M.D., was in her society. She had never 
understood Doctor Sophy, and Miss Brooke had always 
detested her. 

‘‘Am I to understand. Lady Alice,” said the spinster, in 
her stiffest voice, “ that my brother wishes you to take 
up your abode in this house during his absence ? ” 

“Yes, I think so,” said Lady Alice, equably. “ He lias 
wished me to take up my abode here for some* time past.” 

“ Indeed ? ” 

The note of incredulity in her voice angered Caspar’s 
wife. 

“ I think you hardly understand,” she said with some 
quiet dignity, “ that I have been to see Mr. Brooke this 
afternoon. Strange circumstances demand new treatment. 
Miss Brooke. I consulted with my husband as to what we 
had better do, and lie agreed with me that it would be 
better for Lesley if I came here — at any rate for the pre- 
sent.” 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, y 299 

‘‘ Better for Lesley ! Miss Brooke was evidently 
offended. ‘‘ I do not think that you need put yourself to 
any inconvenience — even for Lesley's sake. I will take 
care of her." 

“ But I happen to be her mother," said Lady Alice, with 
a touch of amusement. It struck her as odd that Miss 
Brooke only amused her now, and did not make her angry 
at all. ‘‘ And we have the world to think of, besides." 

I scarcely thought you troubled yourself very much 
about what the world said," remarked Aunt Sophy, severely. 
“ It has said a good deal during the last ten or twelve 
years." 

“ At least it shall not say," responded Lady Alice, that 
I believe my husband guilty of murder. I have come back 
to prevent that^ 

Miss Brooke looked at her doubtfully. She was not a 
person of very quick perceptions. 

“ You mean," she said at last, that you have come 
back — because " 

“ Because he was accused of murder," said Lady Alice, 
clearly, ‘‘ and I choose to show the world that I do not 
believe it." 

And Lesley, entering from the library, heard the words, 
and stood transfixed for a moment with pure delight. Then 
she sprang forward, fell on her knees before her mother, 
and embraced her with such fervor that Miss Brooke put 
up her eye-glasses and gazed in surprise. 

Mother ! my own dearest mother ! You do believe in 
him, then ! and you have come to show us that you do I 
Oh ! how delighted he will be when he knows ! " 

A little color showed itself in Lady Alice’s delicate face. 

He does know," she whispered, almost with the coyness 
of a girl. 

And he was delighted, was he not? It would be such 
a comfort to him — just now when he wants every kind of 
comfort. Oh, mamma, it is so good of yq,u, and I am so 
glad. Aunty Sophy, aren’t you glad, too? " 

Lady Alice tried to stifle this naive utterance, but it 
would not be repressed, and Aunt Sophy had to rise to the 
occasion as best she could. With rather a grim face, she 
rose from her seat upon the sofa and advanced towards her 
brother’s wife, holding out a very reluctant hand. 

I appreciate your motives. Lady Alice, and I see that 
your conduct maybe of service to my brother." Then she 


300 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER. 


relapsed into a more colloquial tone. ‘‘ But Iiow on earth 
you mean to live in this part of London, Lm sure I can’t 
imagine. No doubt it seems rather smoky and grimy to 
you after Mayfair and Belgravia.’’ 

“ London is generally a little smoky,” said Lady Alice, 
smiling in spite of herself. “ Thank you, Sophy : I thought 
you would do me justice.” 

And the hands of the two women met in a friendlier grasp 
than ever in the days of yore. 

I must see about your room,” said Miss Brooke, prac- 
tically. It was her way of holding out the olive branch. 

You would like to be near Lesley, I suppose. We shall 
try to make you comfortable, but, of course, you won’t 
expect the luxuries of your own home here.” 

‘•I shall be very comfortable, I am sure,” said Lady 
Alice. 

What does she mean by talking in that tone ? ” cried 
Lesley, hotly, when Doctor Sophy had left the room. ‘‘ It 
was almost insulting ! ” 

No, my darling, no. It is only a memory of old times 
when I was — exacting and dissatisfied. Yes, I sec that I 
must have seemed so, then. I had not had much experience 
in those days ; and then your father was not a man of sub- 
stance as he seems to be now,” said Lady Alice, inspecting 
the room, with a half-smile. The smile died quickly away, 
however, and was succeeded by a sad look and a sigh. 
“ Ah, poor Caspar ! ” 

He will be home in a day or two. Everybody says 

so.” 

trust so, dearest. And I will stay with — you till he 
comes home.” 

“ Oh, but now that you have come, mamma, you will 
never be allowed to go away again.” 

‘‘ I never said that, Lesley. I have come to maintain a 
principle, that is all. A wife ought to show that she trusts 
her husband, if he is falsely accused.” 

And then Lady Alice lowered her eyes and changed the 
subject, for it suddenly occurred to her that she had not 
been very ready, in her younger years, to give the trust 
that now seemed to be her husband’s due. 

But she settled down quite naturally in her husband’s 
home during the next few days. Lesley, remembering the 
discomfort of her own first few w'eeks, expected her to say 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER, 


301 


that the house was hideous and the neighborhood detest- 
able. But Lady Alice said nothing of the kind. She 
thought it a fine old house — well-built and roomy — far 
preferable, she said, to the places she had often occupied 
in the West End. With different furniture and a little good 
taste it might be made absolutely charming. And when 
she got as far as absolutely charming,’' uttered with her 
chin pillowed on one hand, and her eyes roving medita- 
tively over the drawing-room mantelpiece, Lesley smiled to 
herself, and gave up all fear that she would ever go away 
again. Lady Alice had evidently come to the conclu- 
sion that it was her duty to see that Caspar’s house was 
thoroughly redecorated from top to bottom. 

But she did not come to this conclusion all at once. 
There were days when the minds of mother and daughter 
were too full of sorrow and anxiety to occupy themselves 
with upholstery and bric-a-brac. And the day of the ad- 
journed inquest, when Caspar Brooke was allowed to go to 
his own house on bail, was one of the worst of all. 

He came home quietly that afternoon in company with 
Maurice Kenyon, greeted his family affectionately but with 
something of a melancholy air, then went at once to his 
study, where he shut himself up and began to write and 
read letters. The cloud was hanging over him still. He 
knew well enough that if he had been a poor man, of no 
account in the world, he would at that moment have been 
occupying a prison cell instead of his own comfortable 
study. For presumption was strong against him ; and it 
had taken a great deal of influence and extraordinarily high 
bail to secure his release. At present he stood committed 
to take his trial for manslaughter within a very short space 
of time. And nobody had succeeded, or seemed likely to 
succeed, in throwing any doubt on the testimony of Mary 
Trent. He was certainly in a very awkward oosition : it 
might be a very terrible position by-and-bye. 

He was aroused from the reverie into which he nad fallen 
by the entry of a servant with a note. He opened it, read 
the contents slowly, and then put it into the fire. He stood 
frowning a little as he watched it burn. 

After a few moments of this hesitation he rang the bell, 
told Sarah that he was going out, and left the house. The 
three women in the drawing-room upstairs, already nervous 
and overstrained from long suspense, all started when the 


BROOKE^ s Daughter. 


reverberation of that closing door made itself heard. Les- 
ley felt her mother’s hand close on hers with a quick, con- 
vulsive pressure. She looked up. 

He has gone out ! Lady Alice murmured, so that 
Lesley alone could hear. “ He does not come — to 7is /” 

Lesley did not know what to say. She was surprised to 
find that her mother expected him to come. But then she 
was only Caspar Brooke’s daughter and notliis wife. 

Lady Alice lay back in her chair, closed her eyes and 
waited. She had once been a jealous woman : there were 
the seeds of jealousy in her still. She sat and wondered 
whether Caspar had gone for sympathy and comfort to any 
other woman. And after wondering this for half an hour 
it suddenly occurred to her mind with the vividness of a 
lightning flash that if things wei’e so — if her husband had 
found sympathy elsewhere — it was her own fault. She had 
no right to accuse him, or to blame him, when she had left 
him for a dozen years. 

I have no right to blame him, perhaps, but I have still 
a right to know,” she said to herself. And then, disen- 
gaging her hand from Lesley's clinging fingers, she rose 
and went downstairs — down to the study which she had 
so seldom visited. She seated herself in Caspar’s arm- 
chair, and prepared to wait there for his return. Surely 
he would not be long ! — and then she would speak to him, 
and things should be made clear. 

Caspar’s note had been written by Mrs. Romaine. It 
was quite formal, and merely contained a request that he 
would call on her at his earliest convenience. And he 
complied at once, as she had surmised that he would do. 
Her confidential* maid opened the door to him, and con- 
ducted him to the drawing-room. It was dusk, and the 
blinds were drawn down. Oliver Trent’s funeral had taken 
place the day before. 

Mr. Brooke did not sit down. He knew that the inter- 
view which was about to take place was likely to be a ])a in- 
ful one, but he could not guess in the least what kind of 
turn it would take. Did Rosalind believe in his guilt ? 
Did she know what manner of man her brother Oliver had 
been ? Was she going to reproach or to condole ? She 
had done a strange thing in asking him to the house at all, 
and at another time he might have thought it wiser ’not to 
accede to her request ; but he was in the mood in which 


BROOl^E'^S DAUGHTER. 


3^3 


the most extraordinary incidents seem possible, and scarcely 
anything could have seemed to him too bizarre to happen. 
He felt curiously impatient of the ordinary conventionalities 
of civilized life. Since this miraculous thing had come to 
pass — that he, Caspar Brooke, a respectable, sane, healthy- 
minded man of middle-age, could be accused of killing a 
miserable young scamp like Oliver Trent in a moment of 
passion — the world had certainly seemed somewhat crazy 
and out of joint. It was not worth while to stand very 
much on ceremony at such a conjuncture ; and if Rosalind 
Romaine wanted to talk to him about her dead brother, he 
was willing to go and hear her talk. And yet as he stood 
in her dainty little drawing-room, it came over him very 
strongly that he ought not to be there. 

He was still musing when the door opened, and Rosalind 
stole into the room. He did not hear her until she was 
close upon him, and then he turned with a sudden start. 
She looked different — she was changed. Her face was 
very pale : her eyelids were reddened : she was dressed in 
the deepest black, and over her head she had flung a black 
lace veil, which gave her — perhaps unintentionally — a 
tragic look. She held the folds together with her right 
hand, and spoke to him quietly. 

“ It was kind of you to come,’’ she said. 

‘‘ You summoned me. I should not have come without 
that,” he answered, quickly. 

“ No, I suppose not. And of course — in the ordinary 
course of things — I ought not to have summoned you. 
The world would say that I was wrong. But we have been 
old friends for many years now, have we not ? ” 

‘‘ I always thought so,” he answered, gravely. But 
now — I fear ” 

“You mean ” — with a strange vibration in her voice — 
“ you mean that we must never be friends again — because 
— because of Oliver ” 

“ This accusation must naturally tend to separate the 
families,” he said, in a very calm, grave voice. “ Even 
when it is disproved, we shall not find it easy to resume 
old relations. I am very sorry for it, Rosalind, just as I 
need not tell you how sorry I am for the cause ” 

She interrupted him hurriedly. “Yes, yes, I know all 
that ; but you speak of disproving the charge. Can you 
do that ? ” 


304 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


He was silent for a moment. I shall do my best/' he 
said at length, with some emotion in his voice. 

‘‘ And if it is not disproved — what then ? " she asked. 

Suppose they call it 7n7irder ? ’’ 

Caspar drew himself up : a certain displeasure began to 
mark itself upon his features. 

Need you ask me ? 

‘‘ Yes, I need. I want you to consider the answer that 
you would give. I have a reason.’' 

Her eager eyes, hot and burning in a face that was 
strangely white, pled for her. Caspar relented a little, but 
bent his brows as he replied — 

‘‘The extreme penalty of the law, I suppose. It is 
absurd — but, of course, it is possible. It is not a case in 
which I should expect penal servitude for life to be substi- 
tuted, supposing that I were found guilty. But I fail to see 
your motive for asking what must be to me a rather pain- 
ful question." 

“ Oh, you are strong ! You can bear it ! ’' she said, 
dropping her face upon her hands. Caspar gazed at her 
in amazement. He began to wonder whether she were 
going out of her mind. But before he could find any word 
of calming or consoling tendency, she flung down her 
hands and spoke again. “ I want you to fix your mind on 
it for a moment, even although it hurts you," she said. 

You are a strong man — you do not shrink from a thing 
because it is a little painful. Think what it would mean 
for yourself, and not for yourself only ; for your friends, 
for those who love you ! A perpetual disgrace — a 
misery ! " 

“You seem anxious to assume that I shall be con- 
victed," he said, still with displeasure. 

“ I tell you I am doing so on purpose. I want you to 
think of it. You know — you know as well as I do — that 
the chances are against you ! " 

“ And if they are ? " 

“ If they are — why do you incur such a risk ! " 

“ Mrs. Romaine," said Caspar, gently, but with a steady 
coldness of tone, of which she did not at first feel the 
import, I think you hardly know the force of what you 
are saying. I do not incur any risk unnecessarily or wan- 
tonly : I only wish the truth to be made known. What 
can I do more — or less ? " 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER, 


305 


“ You could go away/’ she said, almost in a whisper. 

If the room had been lighter, she might, perhaps, have 
seen the frown that was gathering on his brow, the wrath 
that darkened his eyes as he spoke ; but his face was in 
shadow, and for a moment anger made him speechless. 
She went on eagerly, breathlessly, without waiting for a 
reply. 

You might get off quite easily to — to Spain, perhaps, 
or some place where there was no extradition treaty. You 
are out on bail, I know ; but your friends could not com- 
plain. Surely it is a natural enough thing for a man, situ- 
ated as you are, to wish to escape : nobody would blame 
you in the long run — they would only say that you were 
wise. And if you stay, everything is against you. You 
had so much better take your present chance ! ” 

Caspar muttered something inarticulate, then seemed to 
choke back further utterance, and kept silence for a minute. 
When he spoke it was in a curiously tranquil tone. 

You do not seem to have heard of the quality that 
men call their honor ? ” 

Oh, honor ! I have heard enough about honor,” she 
answered with a nervous, rasping laugh. “ And you — you 
to talk about honor — after — after what you have done /” 
Caspar Brooke fell back a step or two and surveyed her 
curiously. ‘‘ God God ! ” The exclamation broke from 
him, as if against his will. ‘‘ You speak as though you 
thought I was guilty — as though I had — murdered 
Oliver ! ” 

And she, looking at him as intently as he looked at her, 
said only, in the simplest possible way — 

‘‘And did you not? ” 


3o6 


BROOK^^S DAUGHIBR. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

LOVE OR TRUST. 

Caspar turned away. For a moment he leit mortally sick, 
as if from a pang of acute physical pain. Distrust from 
an old friend is always a hard thing to bear. And so, for 
a moment or two, he did not speak. 

I was not surprised,” said Mrs. Romaine, quickly. “ I 
had been looking for something of the kind. I won’t say 
that you were not justified — in a certain sense. Oliver 
acted abominably, I know. He told me what he was going 
to do beforehand.” 

Told you what he was going to do ? ” 

“ Yes — to make Lesley fall in love with him. He did 
not mean to marry her. He meant to gain her affections 
and then to — to — leave her, to break her heart. I suppose 
that is what you found out. I do not wonder that you 
w^re surprised.” 

“ No doubt you have good authority for what you are 
saying,” said Mr. Brooke, very coldly, “ but your account 
does not tally with what I have gathered from other 
sources.” 

From Lesley herself?” 

Caspar bowed his head. He was conscious of a violent 
dislike to bringing Lesley’s name into the discussion. Mrs. 
Romaine went on rapidly. 

“ As to Lesley, of course I cannot say. I don’t know 
whether he failed or succeeded. Oliver very seldom failed 
with women when he tried. But, of course, he was going 
to marry Ethel ; and that meant that if he had succeeded 
Lesley had been thrown over. It is not like me to put 
things so baldly, is it? I see that I disgust you. But I 
do not know that I need apologize. You are man of the 
world enough to understand that at certain crises we are 
obliged to speak our minds, to face the truth boldly and 
see what it means. Is it not so ? ” 

“ It may be so, but I am not aware that the present crisis 
demands such plain speaking.” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


307 


Then you must be blind/^ said his hearer, with a burst 
of indignation, ‘‘ blind — blind — blind ! Or mad ? is that 
it ? What sort of crisis do you expect ? What can be 
worse than the present state of things? Are not your life 
and her character at stake? Why do you not take your 
present opportunity and save her and yourself? Look the 
matter in the face and decide ? 

I would rather not discuss it,’' said Caspar. The 
course you indicate is not one that could be taken by any 
honorable man. It is — it is — absurd." The last word was 
evidently the substitute for a much stronger one in his 
mind* ‘‘ I see no use in talking about the matter. We are 
only giving ourselves useless pain." 

There was a short silence. Mrs. Romaine drew her veil 
more tightly round her face, and seemed to deliberate. 
Caspar threw a longing glance — which she intercepted — 
towards the door. 

‘‘ Men are such cowards," she said at last, in a low and 
bitter tone. I have proved that in every way : I ought 
to be prepared for cowardice — even from you. They want 
to slip out of every unpleasant position, and leave some 
woman to bear the brunt of it. You, for instance, want to 
go now, this minute, because I have said one or two things 
that pain you. You don’t care enough for what I think to 
make you wish to alter my opinion — to fight it out and 
conquer me ; you only want to get away and leave me to 
‘cool down,' as you would call it. You are mistaken. I 
am not speaking from any momentary irritation : what I 
say to you to-day is the result of long thought, long con- 
sideration, long patience. It would be better for you to 
have the courage and the manliness to listen to me." 

“ You talk in a very extraordinary way, Rosalind," said 
Caspar. “ I do not understand it, and I fail to see its justice 
towards me. I have never refused to listen to you, have I ? 
As for cowardice — it seemed to me that you were trying to 
persuade me to do a very cowardly thing just now ; but 
perhaps I was mistaken. I will hear all that you have to 
say : if I was anxious to go, it was only that I might save 
you from tiring or hurting yourself." 

“ It matters so much whether I am tired or hurt, does it 
not ? " she said, with the faintest possible flicker of a smile 
on her white lips. “That is what you all think of — whether 
one suffers — suffers physically. It is my soul that is hurt, 


3o8 


BROOKE DAUGHTER. 


my heart that is tired — but you don’t concern yourself 
with that sort of thing. 

I assure yon that I am very sorry he began, and 

then he stopped short. She had made it very difficult for 
him to say anything so commonplace, and yet so true. 

If you are sorry,” she said, in a softer tone, “ and if 
you want to make me happier — save yourself T 

No,” said Caspar, roughly — almost violently — by 
Heaven, I won’t do that.” 

You don’t. wish to save yourself?” 

Not at that price — the price of my honor.” 

‘‘ Listen to me,” she said, drawing nearer to him and 
speaking very softly. “ I have made it my business during 
the last day or two — when I gathered that you would be 
let out on bail — to collect all the information that might be 
useful to you. You could get away to-morrow or next day 
by a vessel that leaves Southampton at the time I have 
marked on this paper. It is not an ordinary steamer — 
not a passenger-ship at all — and no one will know that you 
are on board. It would take you to Oporto. You would 
be safe enough in tb.e interior — a friend of mine who went 
there once told me that there were charming palaces and 
half-ruined castles to let, where one could live as in para- 
dise, amidst the loveliest gardens, full of fountains and 
birds and flowers.” 

Her voice took on a caressing tone, as if she were dream- 
ing of perfect happiness. “ How like a woman,” thought 
Caspar to himself, “ to think only of the material side of 
life? ” Then he corrected himself : ‘‘ Like some women : 
not like all, thank God ! ” 

‘‘So you would condemn me to exile and loneliness as 
well as to dishonor ? ” he said. It was as much as he 
could do not to laugh outright at the chimerical idea. 

“ It is no exile to a cosmopolitan like yourself to live 
out of England,” she answered, scornfully. As to dis- 
honor — what will you not have to suffer if you stay in 
England? Where is your reputation now? And as to 
loneliness — don’t you know — do you not see — that you 
need need not go — alone ? ” 

She put her left hand gently on his arm, and for a 
moment there was silence in the room. Her heart beat so 
loudly that she was afraid of his hearing it. But she need 
not have feared ; his mind was far too much occupied with 


BROOKE DAUGHTER. 


309 


more important matters to be able to take cognizance of 
such a detail as the state of Mrs. Romaine^s pulse. 

His first impulse was one of intense indignation and 
anger. His second was one of pity. These feelings 
alternated in him when at last he forced himself to speak. 
Which of the two predominated he hardly knew. Perhaps 
pity : because it drove him, almost as a matter of self- 
respect, to make a pretence of not knowing what she 
meant. 

Anything is exile to a man who leaves his home,^’ he 
said sternly. To a man who leaves his wife and daughter 
— do you understand ? As for the dishonor of such a 
course, it seems as if you could not comprehend that : my 
feelings on the subject are evidently beyond your ken. 
But you can understand this — first, that I should go 
nowhere into no exile, into no new home, without my 
wife j and, secondly, that she, at least, trusts me — she 
knows that I have not your brother's blood upon my 
hands." 

Rosalind’s fingers had slipped from his arm when he 
began to speak : she knew that if she had not removed 
them then they would have been shaken off. He could 
see them amongst the folds of black lace at her breast — 
clutching, tearing, as if she had not room to breathe. 

Your wife ! " she said, with a gasp. I did not know. 

. . . . She has been beforehand with me, then ! And 

it is she — she — that you will take — to Spain ? 

There is no question of Spain. I mean to stay here 
in England and fight the matter out. My wife would be 
the first person to tell me so. I cannot imagine her speak- 
ing to me again if I were coward enough to run away." 

She would not do for you what I have done ! " cried 
the unhappy woman, now, as it seemed, beside herself. 

If she believes you innocent, so much the easier for her ! 
But I — I — believe you guilty — ^yes, Caspar Brooke, I 
believe that you killed my brother — and I do not care ! I 
loved him, yes ; but I love you — you — a thousand times 
more ! " 

“ You do not know what you are saying. You are mad. 
Be silent, Rosalind," said Caspar Brooke, in a deep tone 
of anger. But she raved on. 

‘‘ Have I not been silent for years ? And who is as 
faithful to you as I have been? It is easy to love a man 


310 


brookf:s daughter. 


who is innocent ; but not a man who is guilty ! Guilty or 
not — I do not care. It is you that I care for — and you 
may have as many sins as you please upon your soul — but 
they are nothing to me. I am past anything now but 
speaking the truth. Have you no pity for a woman to 
whom you are dearer than her own soul ? 

She would have thrown herself at his feet, if he had not 
prevented her. He was touched a little by her suffering, 
but he was also immeasurably angered and disgusted. 
An exhibition of uncontrolled feeling was not the way to 
charm him. His one desire now became the desire to 
escape. 

“ I should have no pity,” he said, gravely, ‘‘ for my own 
selfishness and cowardice, if I took advantage of this 
moment of weakness on your part. It is weakness, I hope 
— I will not call it by any other name. You will recover 
from it when the stress of this painful time is over, and 
you will be glad to forget it as I shall do. Believe me, I 
will not think of it again. It shall be in my mind as 
though you had not said it; and, though it will be 
impossible for us to continue on our former terms of 
friendship, I shall always wish for your welfare, and hope 
that time will bring you happiness and peace.” 

She made no answer. She lay where he had placed her, 
her head buried amongst the cushions, crushed to the very 
earth. She would not look at him, would not make sem- 
blance to have heard. And he, without hesitation, went 
deliberately to the door and let himself out. He gained the 
street without being intercepted, and drew a long breath 
of relief when he felt the soft night air playing on his 
heated brow. The moralist would have said that he came 
off victor ; but he had a sense, as he went out along the 
pavement, of being only a defeated and degraded man. 
There was not even the excitement of gratified vanity, for 
an offered love which did not include perfect trust in his 
honor was an insult in itself. And Caspar Brooke’s 
integrity of soul was dear to him. 

It was perhaps impossible for him — a mere man — to 
estimate the extent of suffering to which his scorn had sub- 
jected the woman that he left behind. Rosalind remained 
as he had seen her, crouching on the ground, with her 
head on the sofa cushions, for full two hours or more. 
When she rose she went to her own room and lay upon her 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


311 

bed, refusing for many hours either to eat or to speak. 
She (lid not sleep : she lay broad awake all night, recalling 
every tone of Caspar’s voice, and every passing expression 
of his face. She was bitterly humiliated and ashamed. 
But she was not ashamed in the sense of shame for wrong- 
doing : she was only ashamed because he had rebuffed 
her. She was sick with mortification. She had offered 
him everything in her power — peace, safety, love : she had 
offered him herself even, and been rejected with scorn. 
Nothing crushes a woman like this humiliation. And in 
some women’s natures such an experience will produce 
dire results ; for loss of self-respect is resented as the 
worst injury that man can inflict, and is followed by deadly 
hatred to the man who has inflicted it. It may be argued 
by tlie more logical male that the woman has brought it all 
upon herself ; but no affronted, humiliated, shame-stricken 
woman will ever allow this to be the fact. The sacrifice 
she conceives to have been all her own ; but the pain has 
come from him. 

This was the way in which Rosalind looked at the matter. 
And mistaken as she was in her view of the moralities and 
proprieties of the situation, she suffered an amount of pain 
which may well arouse in us more pity than Caspar Brooke 
felt for her. The burning, stinging sense of shame seemed to 
make her whole soul an open wound. It was intolerable. 
Tlie only way out of it, she said to herself at first, is to die. 
There was an old song that rang in her ears continually, 
as if somebody were repeating it over and over again. 
She could not remember it all — only a line here and there. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly,” it began, what art 
can wash her tears and stains and shame away? And the 
answer was what Rosalind herself had already given : 
the only way to rouse his pity ” was ‘‘ to die 1 ” She 
almost laughed at herself for repeating the well-worn, 
liackneyed, century-old ditty. People did not die nowa- 
days, either of broken hearts or of chloral, when their 
lovers deserted them. And Caspar Brooke had never 
been her lover. No, he had only given her pain ; and she 
wished that she could make him suffer, too. “ Revenge ” 
was too high-flown a word; but if she could see him heart- 
broken, ruined, disgraced, she would be — not satisfied, but 
she would feel her pain allayed. 

Caspar Brooke walked for an hour before he was calm 
enough to remember that he ought to go home. When this 


312 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


idea once occurred to him, he felt a pang of shame for his 
own forgetfulness. What would Alice think of him? And 
this was the first day that she had been with him in 
his house for so many years. He must go home and 
make his apologies. Not that she would expect very 
much attention from him. Had she not said that she was 
only trying to do her duty ? Probably she disliked him 
still. 

He let himself in with his latch-key, and walked straight 
into the study. A shaded lamp had been lighted, and 
but faintly illuminated the corners of the room. But 
there was light enough for him to see that Lady Alice 
was sitting in his chair. He came up to the table, and 
looked at her without speaking. There was a strange 
tumult of feeling in his heart. He wished that he could 
tell her how gratified he was by her trust in him, how 
much he prized the very things that had once irritated him 
against her — her reserve, her fine perception, her excellent 
fiistidiousness of taste, even that little air of coldness that 
became her so well. To come into her presence was like 
entering a fragrant English garden, after stifling for an 
hour in a conservatory where the air was heavy with the 
perfume of stephanotis. 

She rose, as he continued silent, and stood on the rug, 
almost face to face with him. She did not find it easy to 
speak, and there was something in his air which frightened 
her a little. She made a trivial remark at last, but with 
great difficulty. 

You have been away a long time,*’ she said. 

She was not prepared for the answer. He put out his hand 
and drew her close to him. You were away a great deal 
longer,” he said, looking down at her fair, serious face. 
She could not reply. Twelve years, is it not ? ” he went 
on. ‘‘ That’s a long time out of one’s life, Alice. I feel 
myself an old man now.” 

‘‘ No, no, Caspar ! ” she said, tremulously. 

“What was it all about, Alice? You know I never 
really understood it. Can’t you make me understand? 
Was it that I was simply unbearable ? too disagreeable to 
be put up with any longer.” 

“ No, it was not that. I will speak the truth now, 
Caspar. T was jealous — I thought you cared for Rosalind 
Romaine.” 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


3*3 


“ But you know now — surely — that that was not true ? ” 
Could you swear it ? she asked, suddenly and sharply, 
with a quick look into his face. 

For a moment he was annoyed. Then his brow cleared, 
and he answered, very gravely — 

“ I can and will, if you like. But I thought — having 
trusted me so far — that you could trust me without an 
oath. Alice, I never loved any woman but one : and that 
one was yourself. Have you been as true to me as I have 
been to you ? 

‘‘ I don’t think I ever knew that I loved you until now,” 
said Alice, laying her head with a deep sigh upon her 
husband’s breast. 

Love is not enough, though it is a great deal : do you 
trust me ? ” 

‘‘ Implicitly — now that I have looked at you again.” 

Caspar gave a little laugh. 

“ Then I must never let you go away from me, or you 
will begin to disbelieve in me,” he said. 


3^4 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

TWELVE SILVER SPOONS. 

Lady Alice was not long in finding out that Maurice Ken- 
yon, her husband’s chief friend, was the man of whom 
Lesley had spoken in her letters, and also the doctor who 
had interested her at the hospital. She did not speak to 
Lesley about him : she took a little time to accustom her- 
self to her husband’s circle before she made any remarks 
upon its members. But she was shrewd enough to see very 
quickly that Mr. Kenyon took even more interest in her 
daughter than in her husband, and from Lesley’s shy looks 
she fancied that the interest was reciprocated. She had a 
twinge of regret for her favorite, Harry Duchesne, and then 
consoled herself by saying that after all Lesley was too 
young to know her own mind, and that probably she would 
change before she was twenty-one. 

She did not come particularly into contact with Maurice, 
however, until the Sunday after she had taken up her abode 
in Woburn Place. And then she saw a good deal of him. 
For Lesley went to sit with Ethel as was her wont, and 
Maurice came to dine at Mr. Brooke’s. After the early 
dinner. Lady Alice noticed that there was some parleying 
between the guest and his host. 

“ I am going,” said Maurice in an urgent undertone. To 
which Caspar returned a cheerful answer. 

All right, old man ; but I am going too.” And then 
Mr. Kenyon knitted his brows and looked vexed. 

Caspar at once noted his wife’s glance of inquiry. Has 
Lesley told you nothing about our Sunday meetings at the 
Club? We generally betake ourselves to North London 
on a Sunday afternoon. Mr. Kenyon thinks I had better 
stay with you, and — I don’t.” 

From Maurice’s uncomfortable looks, Lady Alice gathered 
that there was something doubtful in the proceeding. Will 
you let me go with you? ” she said, byway of experiment. 

There was an exchange of astonished and rather em- 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


315 

barrassed looks all round. Caspar elevated his eyebrows 
and clutched his beard : Miss Brooke made a curious 
sound, something like a snort ; and Maurice flushed a deep 
and dusky red ; indications which all annoyed Lady Alice, 
although she did not quite know what they signified. She 
rose from her chair and took the matter into her own 
hands ; but all without the slightest change in the manner 
of graceful indifference which had grown natural to her of 
late years. 

‘‘ That is the place where Lesley used to go,'^ she said. 
‘‘ She tells me she sings to the people sometimes. I can- 
not sing, but I can play the piano a little, if that is any 
good. Sophy is going, is she not ? And I should like to 
go too.^' 

“ There is no reason why you should not,'' said Mr. 
Brooke rather abruptly. But the gleam in his eye told of 
pleasure. There are some very rough characters at the 
club sometimes, you know. And perhaps the reception 
they give me to-day will not be of the pleasantest." 

Lady Alice lookod at her husband with a mixture of 
wonder and admiration. The calm way in which he some- 
times alluded to his present circumstances, without a trace 
of bitterness or fretfulness, amazed her. In old days 
she would have put it down to good breeding — good 
manners," some superficial veneer of good society of which 
she thoroughly api)roved ; but she had seen too much of 
the seamy side of ‘‘ good society now to be able to 
accept this explanation of his calmness. It was not want 
of sensitiveness, she was sure of that : he was by no means 
obtuse : it was simply that his large, strong nature rose 
above the pettiness of resentment and complaint. The 
suspicion under which he labored was a grave thing — a 
trouble, a blow ; but it had not made him sour, nor borne 
him to the earth with a conviction of the injustice of man- 
kind. 

His wife looked and marveled, but recollected herself in 
time to say after only a minute’s hesitation : 

‘‘ I know a little more about rough characters than I once 
did. We saw a good many at the East End hospital, did 
we not, Mr. Kenyon ? " 

It was the first time that she had shown that she remem- 
bered Maurice's face. Caspar pricked up his ears. 

“ You at a hospital, Alice ? Why, what were you doing 

there?" 


3i6 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


“ Visiting some of the patients,” she answered, with a 
little blush. 

‘^Visits which were much appreciated,” put in Maurice, 
although we found that Lady Alice was too generous.” 

Until I was warned by one of the patients that the 
others abused my kindness and traded on it,” said Lady 
Alice, laughing rather nervously, and then I drew in a 
little.” 

What patient was that? ” 

“ The name I think was Smith — the man who lost his 
memory in that curious way.” 

“Ah yes, I remember.” And then Maurice knitted his 
brows and became very thoughtful : he looked as if a 
thoroughly new idea had been suggested to him. 

Miss Brooke remarked that it was almost time to set out 
if they were to go to the club that afternoon, and Lady 
Alice went to her room for her cloak. She was before the 
looking-glass, apparently studying the reflection of her own 
face, when a knock at the door, to which she absently said 
“ Come in,” was followed by Caspar's entrance. She, 
thinking that it was her maid, did not look round, and he 
came behind her without being perceived. The first token 
of his presence was received by her when his arm was 
slipped round her waist, and his voice said caressingly and 
almost playfully in her ear, “ I don't know that I want my 
dainty piece of china carried down into the slums.'^ 

“ Am I nothing more to you than that ? ” said Lady Alice 
reproachfully. 

He made no answer, but as he looked at the fair face in 
the glass, and as their eyes met, she thought that she read 
a reply in his glance. 

“ I have been nothing more — I know,” she said, with 
sudden humbleness, “ but if it is not too late — if I can make 
up now for the time I have lost ” 

The. tears trembled in her eyes, but he kissed them away 
with new tenderness, saying in a soothing tone — 

“We will see, my dear, we will see. I was only in 
jest.” 

And she felt that he was thinking not only of the lost 
years, but of the possible gulf before him — that horror of 
darkness and disgrace which they might yet have to face. 

She went downstairs to the cab that was waiting, with a 
new and subduing sensation very present to her mind: a 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


3^7 


sense of something missed out of her own life, a sense of 
having failed in the duty that had once been given her to 
do. Hitherto she had been buoyed up by a certain confi- 
dence in her own conscientiousness and power of judgment, 
as most rather narrow-minded women are ; but it now 
occurred to her that she might have been wrong — not only 
in a few details, as she had consented to admit — but wrong 
from beginning to end. She had marred not only her own 
life but the lives of her husband and her child. 

This consciousness kept her very quiet during the drive 
to Macclesfield Buildings. But nobody spoke much, ex- 
cept Doctor Sophy, who made interjectional remarks, half 
lost in the rattling of the cab, by way of trying to keep uj) 
everybody’s spirits. Caspar sitting opposite his wife, with 
his arms folded and his long legs carefully tucked out of 
the way, had an unusually serious and even anxious expres- 
sion. Indeed it struck Lady Alice for the first time that he 
was looking haggard and ill. The burden was weighing 
upon him even more than he knew. Maurice, too, seemed 
absorbed in thought, so that the drive was not a particularly 
lively one. 

They got out at the block of buildings which had once 
struck Lesley as so particularly ugly. Perhaps their ugli- 
ness did not impress Lady Alice so much. At any rate 
she made no remark upon it. Her fingers were lightly 
pressed upon Caspar’s arm : her thoughts were occupied 
by him. 

At the door of the block in which the club-rooms were 
situated, a little group of men were standing in somewhat 
aimless fashion, smoking and talking among themselves. 
Caspar recognized several of the club members in this 
group. Ah,” he said quietly to his wife, they thought 
that I should not come.” She made no answer : as a mat- 
ter of fact she began to feel a trifle frightened. These 
rough-looking men, with their pipes, who nudged each other 
and laughed as she passed, were of a kind unknown to her. 
But Caspar walked through them easily, nodding here and 
there, with a cheery “ Good-afternoon.” 

Lady Alice did not know it, but the room presented an 
unusual sight to her husband’s eyes that afternoon. The 
fire was burning, and the gas was lighted, for the day was 
cold and damp : the comfortable red-seated chairs were as 
inviting as ever, and the magazines and newspapers lay in 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


rows upon the scarlet table-cloth. There were flowers in 
the vases, and a piece of music on the open piano. Lady 
Alice exclaimed in her pleasure, “ How pretty it is ! how 
cosy ! and wondered at the gloom that sat upon her hus- 
band’s brow. 

The room was cosy and pretty enough — but it was empty. 

Caspar looked round mutely, then glanced at his com- 
panions. Miss Brooke paused in the act of taking off one 
woollen glove, and opened her mouth and forgot to shut it 
again. Maurice stood frowning, twitching his brows and 
biting his lips in the eflbrt to subdue a torrent of rage that 
was surging up in his heart. He would have sworn, he 
said afterwards, if Lady Alice had not been there — he did 
not mind Doctor Sophy so much. All that he did now, 
however, was to mutter “ Ungrateful rascals,” and make 
as if he would turn to flee. 

But he was stopped by Caspar’s clutch at his arm. Mau- 
rice saw that his purpose — that of haranguing the men 
outside — had been divined and arrested. He turned to 
his friend and saw for the first time on Caspar’s face that 
the shaft had gone home. He had shown scarcely any sign 
of suffering before. 

I don’t deserve this from them,” said Brooke quietly, 
and Maurice could tell that he had gone rather white about 
the lips. Then in a still lower voice, “ Don’t let her know. 
You were right, Maurice ; I had better not have come.” 

I’ll just go and look outside : I won’t speak to them, 
don’t be afraid — you talk to Lady Alice,” said Maurice 
breaking from him. But when he got into the dark little 
entry, he did not look outside for anything or anybody : he 
only relieved himself by exclaiming. ‘‘ Oh, d — n the fools ! ” 
and shaking his first in a very reprehensible way at some 
imaginary cro\vd of auditors. For Maurice was half an 
Irishman, and his blood was up, and on his friend’s behalf 
he was, as he would just then have expressed it, ‘‘ in a de- 
vil of a rage.” While he was executing a sort of mad war- 
dance on the jute mat in the passage, relieving his mind by 
some wild gesticulation and still wilder objurgation of 
the world, Mr. Brooke had turned back to his wife with a 
pleasant word and smile. 

“ I must show you the photographs,” he said. We are 
very proud of them. There will be plenty of time, for the 
members seem to be a little late in getting together to-day. 
Possibly they thought I was not coming.” 


BROOJCE'S DAUGHTER. 


319 


It is scarcely time yet/’ said Miss Brooke heroically. 
She knew it was ten minutes past, but she was quite pre- 
pared to sacrifice truth for the maintenance of her brother's 
dignity. 

That' s a good one of the Parthenon,'’ said Caspar 
negligently, putting his hand within his wife’s arm, and 
leading her from one picture to another. The Coliseum 
you see : not quite so clear as it might be. These frames 
were made by one of the men in the buildings — ^given as a 
present to the club. Not bad taste, are they? And this 
statuette " 

He broke off suddenly. He had been going on hurriedly 
and feverishly, filling up the time as best he might, trying 
to forget the embarrassing situation into which he had 
brought his wife and himself, when the sound of heavy 
footsteps fell upon his ear. A sound of shuffling, the creak 
of men's boots, a little gruff whispering in the doorway — 
what was it all about ? Were the men whom he had helped 
and guided going to turn against him openly — to give 
him in his wife’s presence some other insult beside the tacit 
insult of their absence ? He turned round sharply, with the 
feeling that if he was brought to bay the men would have 
a bad time of it. He certainly looked a formidable antago- 
nist. The hair had fallen over his forehead, his brows were 
knotted, his eyes gleamed rather fiercely beneath them, his 
under lip was thrust out aggressively. ‘‘ As fierce as a lion,” 
said one of the observers, afterwards. But even while his 
eyes darted flame and fury at the men who had deserted 
them, his body kept its half-protecting, half-deferential pose 
with respect to Lady Alice ; and the hand that held her arm 
was studiously gentle in its touch. 

Lady Alice turned round, amazed. There was a little 
crowd in the passage : the room was already half full. 
Men and women too were there, and more crowded in from 
behind. There must have been nearly fifty, when all were 
seen, and there were more men than women. But they 
did not sit down : they stood, they leaned against the walls ; 
one or two mounted on the benches at the back and stood 
where they could get a good view of the proceedings. Cas- 
par's scowl remained fixed, but it was a scowl of astonish- 
ment. He looked round for Maurice, whom he presently 
saw beckoning to him to take his usual place near the 
piano. He said a word to his wife, and brought her round 


320 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


with him towards his sister and his friend. The men still 
stood, and crowded a little nearer to him as he reached his 
place. There was very little talking in the room, and the 
men’s faces looked somewhat solemn : it was evidently a 
serious occasion. 

‘‘Is this — this — what usually goes on?” queried the 
puzzled Lady Alice. 

“ This ? Oh no ! ” said Maurice, to whom she had ad- 
dressed herself, with a sudden happy laugh, and a perfectly 
beaming face. Thish — a demonstration. Here, Caspar, 
old man, you’ve got to stand here. Now^ Gregson.” 

Lady Alice accepted the chair offered to her, and Miss 
Brooke another. Caspar began to look utterly perplexed, 
but a little relieved also, for his eye, in straying over the 
crowd, had recognized two or three faces as those of inti- 
mate friends who seemed to be mingling with the men, and 
he felt sure that they had no inimical purpose towards him. 
All that he could do was to look down and grasp his 
beard, as usual, while Jim Gregson, the man who had once 
spoken to Lesley so warmly of her father, being pushed 
forward by the crowd as their spokesman, addressed him- 
self to Caspar. 

“ Mr. Brooke — Sir : We have made bold to change the 
order of the proceedings for this ’ere afternoon. Instead of 
beginning with the music, we just want to say a few words ; 
and that^s why we’ve come in all at once, so as to show that 
we are all of one mind. We think, sir, that this is a very suit- 
able opportunity for presenting you with a mark of our — our 
gratitude and esteem. We have always found you a true 
friend to us, and an upright man that would never allow 
the weak to be trampled on, nor the poor to be oppressed, 
and we wish to show that whatever the newspapers may 
say, sir, we have got heads on our shoulders and know a 
good man when we see him.” This sentence was uttered 
with great emphasis, to an accompaniment of “ Hear, hear,” 
from the audience, and considerable stamping of feet, um- 
brellas and sticks. “ What we wish to say, sir,” and Mr. 
Gregson became more and more embarrassed as he came 
to this point, “ is that we respect you as a man and as a 
gentleman, and that we take this opportunity of asking you 
to accept this small tribute of our feelings towards you, 
and we wish to say that there’s not a member of the club 
as has not contributed his mite towards it, as well as many 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


321 


poor neigh])ors in the Buildings. It’s a small thing to give, 
but that you will excuse on account of the shortness of the 
notice, so to speak ; the suggestion having been made 
amongst ourselves and by ourselves only three days ago. 
We beg you’ll accept it as a token of respect, sir, from the 
whole of the Macclesfield Buildings Working Men's Club, 
of which you was the founder, and which we hope you’ll con- 
tinue for many long years to be the president ofR And with 
a resounding emphasis on the preposition, Mr. Gregson 
finished his speech. A tremendous salvo of applause fol- 
lowed his last word, and before it had died away a woman 
was hastily dragged to the front, with a child — a blue-eyed 
fairy of two or three years old — in her arms. The child held 
a brown paper parcel, and presented it with baby solemni- 
ty to Mr. Brooke, who kissed her as he took it from her 
hands. And then, under cover of more deafening applause, 
Mr. Brooke turned hurriedly to Maurice and said, in a very 
unheroic manner — 

I say, I can't stand much more of this. I shall make 
a fool of myselfdirectly." 

‘‘Do: they’ll like it, the beggars!'’ returned Maurice 
in high glee. 

Blithe had more sympathy in his eyes than his words 
expressed, and the grip that he gave his friend’s hand set the 
audience once more applauding enthusiastically. An au- 
dience of Londoners with whom a speaker is in touch is one 
of the most sympathetic and enthusiastic in the world. 

While they applauded, the parcel was opened. It con- 
tained a morocco case, lined with dark blue satin and velvet 
— an unromantic and prosaic expression of as truly high and 
noble feeling as ever found a vent in more poetic ways — 
and on the velvet cushion lay — twelve silver spoons 1 

There was an odd little touch of bathos about it, and an 
outsider might perhaps have smiled at the way in which 
the British workman and his wife had chosen to manifest 
their faith in the man who had been in their eyes wrong- 
fully accused ; but nobody present in the little assembly 
saw the humorous side of it at all, not even a young gen- 
tleman who was hastily making a sketch of it for the 
G^'aphic^ for he blew his nose as vigorously as anybody 
else. And there was a good display of handkerchiefs and 
some rather troublesome coughing and choking in the 
course of the afternoon, which showed that the donors of 

21 


BROoKE^s Daughter, 


322 

the spoons did not look on tlie gift exactly in the light of d 
joke* 

Mr. Brooke was a practised speaker; and when he 
opened his lips to reply, his sister dried her eyes and put 
down her handkerchief with a gratified smile as much as 
to say, ‘‘ Now we shall have a treat. And she settled her- 
self so that she could watch the effect of the speech on 
Lady Alice, who had forgotten to wipe her tears away, and 
sat with eyelashes wet and cheeks slightly flushed, looking 
astoundingly young nnd pretty in the excitement of the 
moment. But Miss Brooke was doomed to be disappointed. 
Caspar began once, twice, thrice — and broke down irrevo- 
cably. The only intelligible words he got out were, “ My 
dear friends, I can’t tell you how I thank you.” And that 
was quite true : he couldn’t. 

But there was all the more applause, and all the more 
kindly feeling for that failure of his to make a speech ; and 
then one or two other men spoke of the good that Mr. 
Brooke had done in that neighborhood, and of the help that 
he had given them all in founding the club, and of the brave 
and encouraging words that he had spoken to them, and so 
on ; and the young artist for the Graphic sketched away 
faster and faster, and said to himself, ‘‘ My eye, there’ll be 
a precious row if they try to hang him after this, whatever 
he’s done.” But the sensation of the afternoon was yet to 
come. 

I can only say once more, my friends,” said Caspar, as 
the hour wore away, that I thank you for this expression 
of your confidence in me, and that I have never had a 
prouder moment in my life than this, in which you tell me 
of your own accord that you believe in my innocence of 
the crime attributed to me. Of that, however, *I will not 
speak. I wish only, before we separate, to introduce you 
to my wife, who has never been here before, and whom I 
am sure you will welcome for my sake.” 

There was a moment of astonishment. Every one knew 
something of the story of Caspar’s married life, and was 
taken aback by the appearance of his wife. But when 
Maurice Kenyon led the way by claj^ping his hands vigor- 
ously, someone took up the word, and cried, “ Tliree cheers 
for Mrs. Brooke.” And Lady Alice started at the new 
title, and thought that it sounded much better than the one 
by which she was usually known. 


th^ooke^s daughter. 


323 


Shall I say any more ? said Caspar, smiling as he 
stooped down to her. But suddenly she rose to her feet 
and put her hand within his arm. No,” she said, I am 
going to do it myself.’^ 

The storm of clapping was renewed and died away when 
it was perceived that Lady Alice was’ about to speak. She 
was a little flushed, but perfectly self-possessed, and her 
clear silvery voice could be heard in every corner of the 
room. 

I wish to thank you, too,” she said, for your kindness 
to my husband and myself. I hope I shall know more of 
his work here by and by, and in the meantime I can only 
tell you that you are right to trust him and believe in him 
— as / trust him and believe in him with all my heart and 
soul ! ” 

She turned to him a little as she spoke, her eyes shin- 
ing, her face transfigured — the faith in her making itself 
manifest in feature and in gesture alike. There was not 
applause so much as a murmur of assent when she had 
done ; and Caspar, laying hold of her hand, looked down 
at her with a new warmth of tenderness, and said half 
wonderingly. 

Why, Alice ! ” 

Do you think I could let them go without telling them 
what you are to me? ” she said, with a kind of passion in 
her voice which reminded him of Lesley. But there was 
no time to say more, for every person in the room pre- 
sented himself or herself to shake hands with Caspar and 
his wife, and to admire the spoons, which had been pur- 
chased only the night before. 

Very glad to see you amongst us, Mrs. Brooke, mum ; 
and hope youfll come again,” was heard so often that Lady 
Alice was quite amazed by the warmth of the greeting. 
‘‘ And the young lady too — whereas she ? she ought to 
have been here as well,” said one woman ; to which Mau- 
rice Kenyon responded in a pleased growl — 

‘‘ Yes, confound your blundering, so she ought ; and so 
she would have been, if you hadn^t nearly made such a 
blessed mull of the whole affair.” 

He did not think that anybody heard him, and was 
rather taken aback when Lady Alice smiled at him over 
her shoulder. ‘‘ What do you mean, Mr. Kenyon ? ” she 
said. 


324 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Maurice was on his good behavior immediately. “ 01 , 
nothing, Lady Alice ; only that Miss Brooke might have 
been here if we had only had a hint beforehand, and it is 
a pity she should have missed it.” 

A great pity,” said Lesley’s mother ; and she looked 
quite complacently at the twelve silver spoons, which she 
was guarding so jealously, as if she feared they would be 
taken away from her. 

Outside the doors, when the assembly had reluctantly 
dispersed, after an improvised collation, given by Caspar, 
of hot drinks and plum cake, a little crowd of men and 
boys cheered the departing hero of the day so valiantly 
that Lady Alice was almost glad to find herself once more 
driving through the dusky London streets with her hus- 
band at her side. Miss Brooke and Maurice had elected 
to walk home. 

There’s one thing,” said Caspar, rather later in the day, 
as a history of these experiences was unfolded to Lesley ; 
‘‘ we quite forgot to tell the good folks your mother’s name 
and title. She was applauded to the echo as ‘ Mrs. Brooke.’ ” 

‘‘ Oh, you must never tell them,” said Lady Alice, 
hastily. “ I do not want to be anything else, please — now.” 

‘‘ I wish they had let one know beforehand,” said Mau- 
rice, “ they kept it a dead secret — even from me.” 

‘‘ All the greater surprise for us,” said Mr. Brooke. Then 
he looked at Maurice for a moment, and smiled. But it was 
long before they mentioned to each other what both had 
thought and felt in that heart-breaking minute of suspense 
when they believed that Caspar was deserted in the hour of 
need. 

Well,” said Caspar Brooke, at length, ‘‘ whatever may 
happen now” — and he made a pause which was fraught 
with graver meaning than he would have cared to put into 
words — “ I can feel at any rate that ‘ I have had my say.’ 
And you, Alice — well, my dear, you will always have those 
silver spoons to look at ! So we have not done badly after 
all.” 

Like Sir Thomas More, he would have joked when going 
to the scaffold ; but jokes under such circumstances have 
rather a ghastly sound in the ears of his family. 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER. 


325 


CHAPTER XL. 

CAIN. 

Maurice Kenyon took an early opportunity of asking 
Lady Alice whether she would recognize the man Smith if 
she saw him again. 

‘‘I think so. Why do you ask } You know I talked to 
him a good deal.'^ 

I have been very blind,” said Maurice seriously. I 
never thought until to-day of associating him in my mind 
with someone else — someone whom I have seen twice 
during the past week. May I speak freely to you? You 
know I am as anxious as anyone can possibly be that this 
mystery should be cleared up. I wish to speak of Francis 
Trent, the brother of Oliver Trent, and the husband of the 
woman who makes this accusation against Mr. Brooke.” 

Lady Alice recoiled. You cannot mean that John 
Smith had anything to do with him? 

“ I have a strong belief that John Smith and Francis 
Trent are one and the same. To my shame be it spoken, 
I did not recognize him either on Wednesday or Friday 
when I paid him a visit. Ethel wished me to go when she 
heard that he was ill.” He said this in a deprecating 
tone. 

1 quite understand. You saw this man — Francis Trent 
— then?^’ 

Yes, and could not imagine where I had seen him 
before. I think it is the man I used to see in hospital. 
Lady Alice — if you saw him yourself ” 

‘‘ I, Mr. Kenyon ? What ! see the man and woman who 
accuse my husband of murder ? ” — There was genuine 
horror in her tone. ‘‘ How could I speak to them ? ” 

It is just a chance,” said Maurice, in a low voice. If 
he knew i\m\,you were the wife of the man who was accused 
— perhaps something would come of it.” 

What do you mean ? ” 


326 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


Lady Alice, pray do not build too much on what I am 
going to say. If Francis Trent and John Smith be the 
same, then my knowledge of John Smith’s previous condi- 
tion leads me to think it quite possible that it was Francis 
Trent who, in a fit of frenzy, committed the murder of 
which your husband is suspected.” 

Lady Alice looked at him in silence. I don’t see 
exactly,” she said, ‘‘ that I should be of much use.” 

“ Nor I — exactly,” said Maurice. But I see a vague 
chance ; and I ask you — for your husband’s sake — to try 
it.” 

Ah, you know I cannot refuse that,” she said quickly. 
And then she arranged with him where they should meet 
on the following afternoon in order to drive to the lodgings 
now occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Francis Trent. Whether this 
proceeding might not be stigmatized as tampering with 
witnesses,” Maurice and Lady Alice neither knew nor 
cared. If Maurice had a doubt, he stifled it by telling him- 
self that they were not going to visit the “ witness,” Mary 
Trent, but the sick man, John Smith, in whom Lady Alice 
had been interested at the hospital. It was only as a pre- 
caution that he took with him young Mr. Grierson, junior 
partner of the firm of solicitors to whom Caspar’s defence 
was entrusted. Young Grierson was a friend as well as a 
lawyer, and it was always as well to have a friend at hand. 
But really he hardly knew for what result he hoped. 

The rooms in which Maurice himself, at Ethel’s instance, 
had located Mr. and Mrs. Francis Trent were in Bernard 
Street. They were plain but apparently clean and com- 
fortable. Maurice said a word to the servant, and uncere- 
moniously put her aside, and walked straight into the room 
where he knew that Francis Trent was lying. 

A thin, spare woman, with a deadly pale face and black 
sunken eyes, rose from a seat beside the bed as they 
entered. Lady Alice knew, as if by instinct, that this was 
Mary Trent. She averted her eyes from the woman who 
had falsely accused her husband : she could not bear to 
look at her. But Mary Trent scarcely took her eyes off 
Lady Alice’s face. 

Will you look here. Lady Alice, if you please ? ” said 
Maurice in his most professional tone. She turned towards 
the bed, and saw — yes, it was the face of the man whom 
she had known in the hospital : thinner, yellower, more 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


327 


haggard than ever, but still the face of the patient who used 
to watch her as if her presence were a means of healing in 
itself. 

Yes,” she said slowly, ‘‘ that is — John Smith/^ 

‘‘ His real name is Francis Trent,^’ said Maurice. Do 
you know this lady, Francis ? ” 

The sick man nodded. There was a curiously vacant 
look upon his face, brightened only at times by gleams of 
vivid consciousness. 

‘‘Yes, yes, I know her. The lady that came to see me 
in hospital,’’ he murmured feebly. 

“ Do you know who she is ? ” 

“ Why do you trouble him, sir ? ” said Mrs. Trent. 
“ You see how ill he is, wouldn’t it be better for him to be 
left in peace ? ” 

She spoke with sedulous calmness ; but there was a jar 
in her voice which did not sound quite natural. Maurice 
simply repeated his question, and Francis Trent shook his 
head. 

“ She is the wife of Caspar Brooke, the man who, you 
say^ killed your brother Oliver.” 

The sick man’s eyes dilated, and fixed themselves un- 
easily on his wife. “ I did not say it,” he answered, almost 
in a wliisper. “ Mary said it — not I.” 

“ But you heard something, did you not ? ” said Maurice 
remorselessly. 

“ How should he hear anything,” said Mary Trent, “ and 
he asleep in his bed at the time ? Or if not asleep, too ill 
and weak to notice anything. It’s a shame to question him 
like that ; and not legal, neither. You’ll please to leave us 
to ourselves, sir ; we ain’t a show. We can but say what 
we saw and heard, whatever the consequences may be, but 
we need not be tortured for all that.” 

“ That’s enough, Mary,” said the man speaking from the 
bed in a much more natural manner and in a stronger 
voice than he had yet used. “You’re overdoing it — you 
always do. It’s no good. This is the last stroke, and I 
give up. It has gone against the grain with me to get 
anybody into trouble,” he said, looking attentively at Lady 
Alice, “ and now that I know who this lady is, I don’t feel 
inclined to keep up the farce any longer. I am much too 
ill to live to be hanged — Mr. Kenyon can tell you so at any 
piinute — and I may as well give you the satisfaction of 


328 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


knowing that Caspar Brooke had nothing at all to do with 
Oliver’s death : I was his murdererj and no one else : I 
swear it, so help me God ! ” 

Lady Alice turned very faint. Someone put her in a 
chair and fanned her, and when she came to herself she 
heard Francis Trent’s wife speaking. 

‘‘ He’s mad, I tell you. It’s no good paying any atten- 
tion to what he says, gentlemen. I saw him myself in his 
bed at the time, and ” 

‘‘Now, Mary, my dear good soul,” said Francis with the 
old easy superiority which he had always assumed to her, 
“will you just hold your tongue, and let me tell my own 
tale ? You have done your best for me, but you know I 
always told you I was not to be trusted to lie about it if 
anybody appealed to me to evidence. I really have not 
the strength to keep it up. I want at least to die like a 
gentleman.” 

“ I am not at all sure that you are going to die,” said 
Maurice quietly, with his finger on the sick man’s pulse. 
Francis had put off the vacant expression, and his eyes had 
lighted up. He was evidently quite himself again. 

“ No ? ” he said easily. “ Well, I would rather die, if it’s 
all the same to you ; because I fancy I shall have to be 
put under restraint if I do live. I don’t always know what 
i am doing in the least. I know now, though. You can 
bear me out, doctor, isn’t my brain in a very queer state? ” 

“ I fear it is,” said Maurice. 

“ Just so. I am subject to fits of rage in which I don’t 
know what I am doing. And on that night when Oliver 
came to see me, after Brooke had gone away, I got into one 
of these frenzies and followed him downstairs, picking up 
Brooke’s stick on the way and beating poor Oliver about 
the head with it. . . You know well enough how he was 
found. I only came to myself when it was done. And 
then, my wife — with all a woman’s ingenuity — bundled me 
into bed, swore that I had never left it, and that Caspar 
Brooke had done it. It was a lie — she told me so after- 
wards. Eh, Mary ? — Forgive me, old girl : I’ve got you 
into trouble now ; but that is better than letting an inno- 
cent man swing for what I have done, especially when that 
man is the luisband of one who was so kind to me ” 

“ And the father of Lesley Brooke,” said Maurice, look- 
ing steadfastly at Mary Trent. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


329 


A shudder ran through the woman's frame. Then she 
covered her face with her hands and flung herself down at 
her husband's side. 

Oh Francis, my dear, my dear ! she said. ‘‘ I did it 
for you.^' 

And then for an instant there was silence in the room, 
save for her heavy sobs. Francis lay still but patted her 
with his thin fingers, and looked at Caspar Brooke's wife 
with his large, unnaturally bright, dark eyes. 

She is a good soul in spite of it all,*' he said, address- 
ing himself to Lady Alice. And she did it out of love 
for me. You would have done as much for your husband, 
perhaps, if you loved him — but I have heard that you 
don't." 

Oh, but you are wrong," said Lady Alice. “ I love him 
with all my heart, and I thank you deeply — deeply — for 
saving him." 

‘‘ That ought to be some payment," said Francis Trent, 
with his wan, wild smile. And I don't suppose they'll 
be very hard on me, as I did not know what I was doing. 
You'll speak a word to that effect, won’t you, doctor? ” 

I will indeed. But it would have been better for you 
as well as for others if truth had been told from the begin- 
ning," said Kenyon. 

“ It can't be helped now. Is there anything else I can 
do ? You must have my statement taken down. And 
Mary, my girl, you’ll have to make your confession too." 

Oh, Francis, Francis ! " she moaned. ‘‘Not against 
you, my dear — not against you ! " 

“ Yes, against me," said Francis steadily. “ And let us 
finish with the formalities as quickly as may be, doctor, as 
long as my head's clear. I killed my brother Oliver — that 
you must make known as soon as you can. Not for malice, 
poor chap, nor yet for money — though he had cheated me 
many a time — but because I was mad — mad. And I am 
mad now — mad though you do not know it^ — stark, staring 
mad ! " 

And his dark eyes glared at them so strangely that Lady 
Alice cried out and had to be led into another room, for it 
was the light of madness indeed that shone from beneath 
his sunken brows. 

It was while she sat alone for a minute or two while the 
gentlemen were talking in another room, that Mary Trent 


330 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


came creeping to her, with folded hands and furtive mien. 

“ Oh, my lady, my lady, forgive me,’* she said, sobbing 
fretfully as she spoke. ‘‘ I thought but of my own — I did 
not think of you. Nor of Miss Lesley, though I did love 
her — yes, I did, and tried my best to save her from that 
wicked man. Mr. Brooke will tell you what I mean, 
ma’am. And tell him, if you will be so good, that I was 
frightened into taking back the stories I had told him 
about Oliver — but they were all true. Everyone of ’em 
was true. And that I beg he’ll forgive me ; for a better 
and a kinder gentleman I never see, nor one that loved 
poor people more. And Miss Lesley was just like him — 
but it was my husband, and I thought he’d be hanged for 
it, and what could I do ? ” 

And then, while Lady Alice still hesitated between pity 
and a feeling of revolt at pity for a woman who had 
sworn falsely against her dearly beloved husband, Caspar 
Brooke, a cry was heard from the bedroom, and Mary 
turned and fled back to the scene of her duties — sad and 
painful duties indeed, sometimes, when the madman be- 
came violent, and likely enough to be very speedily termi- 
nated by death. 

‘‘ What can I say to you ? ” said Lady Alice to Maurice 
Kenyon, a day or two later. “ It was your acuteness that 
brought the matter to light. Now that that poor wretched 
man is hopelessly insane, we might never have learnt the 
truth. Is there any way in which I can thank you ? any 
way in which I can give you a reward? ” 

She looked steadily into his face, and saw that he 
changed color. 

‘‘ There is only one way. Lady Alice,” he stammered. 

You are not to call me Lady Alice : I like ‘ Mrs. 
Brooke ’ much better. Well ? ” 

‘‘I love your daughter,” said Maurice bluntly, ‘‘and I 
believe she would love me if you would let her.” 
her?” said Mrs. Brooke, with a smile. 

“ She made you some promises before she came to Lon- 
don ” 

“ Ah, not to become engaged before the year was out. 
Tell her that I absolve her from that promise, and — ask 
her again.” 

Maurice found that under these conditions Lesley’s 
answer was all that could be desired. 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER, 


331 


CHAPTER XLI. 

VALE ! 

‘‘ Now that Ethel has gone to the sea-side, I can have you 
to myself a little while,” said Lady Alice to her daughter. 

“ Poor Ethel ] But it is delightful to have you here_, 
mamma : it is so home-like and comfortable.” 

Ah, you will soon have to make a home for somebody 
else ! ” 

Lesley grew red, but smiled. We won’t think of that 
yet,” she said softly. “ Mamma, I want to speak to you 
on a very serious subject.” 

Well, my darling ? ” 

‘‘You won’t be angry with me, will you? It is — about 
Mrs. Romaine.” 

Lady Alice’s brow clouded a little. “ Well, Lesley ? ” 
she said. 

“Mamma, I can’t bear Mrs. Romaine myself. Neither 
can you. Neither can papa. And it is very unchristian 
of all of us, to say the least. Because ” 

“ Neither can papa,” repeated Lady Alice, with raised 
brows. “ My dear child, Mrs. Romaine is a great friend 
of your father’s. He told me only the other day that she 
used to come here very often — to see your Aunt Sophy 
and yourself.” 

“ So she did,” said Lesley, lightly. “ But, of course, 
she can’t very well come now — at least, it would be awk- 
ward. Still I am sure papa does not like her, for he 
looked quite pleased the other day when I told him that 
she was going to give up her house, and said in his short 
way — ‘ So much the better.’ ” 

“Very slight evidence,” said Caspar Brooke’s wife 
smiling. 

“Well, never mind evidence, mammy dear. AVhat I 
want to say is that I feel very sorry for Mrs. Romaine. 
You see she must be feeling very much alone in the world. 
Oliver, whom she really cared for, is dead, and Francis is 


332 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 


out of his mind, and Francis’ wife ” — with a little shudder 
— “ cannot be anything to her — and then, don’t you think, 
mamma, that when there has been one case of insanity in 
the family, she must be afraid of herself too? ” 

‘‘ Not necessarily. Francis Trent’s insanity was the 
result of an accident.” 

‘‘ Yes, but it is very saddening for her, all the same, and 
she must be terribly lonely in that house in Russell Square. 
I wanted to know if I might go and call upon her ? ” 

You, dear? I thought you did not like her.” 

I don’t,” said Lesley, frankly, but I am sorry for 
her. Ethel asked me why I did not go. She thought 
there must be sometliing wrong, because Rosalind never 
came to see her after Oliver’s deatli — -never once. I be- 
lieve she has scarcely been out of the house — not at all 
since the funeral, and that is a month ago. I have not 
heard that she was ill, so I suppose it is just that she is — 
miserable, poor thing.” 

iLady Alice stroked her daughter’s hair in silence for a 
minute or two. ‘‘ I think I had better go instead of you, 
Lesley. There is no reason why she should feel she can- 
not see us. She was not to blame for that accusation — 
though I heard that she believed it. But I will see her 
first, and you can go afterwards if she is able to receive 
visitors.” 

That is very good of you, mamma — especially as you 
don’t like her,” said Lesley. “ I can’t help feelin^.tl>a:iik- 
ful that Ethel will have nothing to do with that family 
now. And since Maurice told her a little more about poor 
Mr. Trent, I think she sees that she would not have been 
very happy.” She was silent for a little while, and then 
went on, trying to give an indifferent sound to her words : 
— ‘‘ Captain Duchesne’s people live near Eastbourne, he 
told me ; and Ethel has gone to Seaford.” 

“ Not far off,” said Lady Alice, smiling a little. I hope 
that his sister Margaret will call on Ethel : I think they 
would like each other.” 

And no more was said, for it was as yet too early 
to wonder even whether Harry Duchesne’s adoration 
for Ethel Kenyon was ultimately to meet with a return. 

True to her new tastes. Lady Alice had had cards 
printed bearing the name Mrs. Caspar Brooke.” She 
desired, she said, to be identified with her husband as 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


333 


much as possible : it was a great mistake to retain a mere 
courtesy title, as if she had interests and station remote 
from those of her husband. Caspar had smilingly opposed 
this change, but Lady Alice had stood firm. Indeed, to 
her old friends she remained Lady Alice to the end of 
the chapter ; but to the outer world she was henceforth 
known as Mrs. Brooke. 

She sent up one of her new cards when she called upon 
Mrs. Romaine. She paid this visit with considerable 
shrinking of heart. She had bitter memories connected 
with Mrs. Romaine. Since the day on which she had 
been reconciled to her husband, she had cast from her all 
suspicion of his past — cast it from her in much the same 
arbitrary and unreasoning manner as she had first embraced 
it. For, like most women, she was governed far more by her 
feelings and instincts than by the laws of evidence. As 
Rosalind had once told her brother. Lady Alice had acci- 
dentally seen and intercepted a letter of hers to Caspar ; 
and Lady Alice had then rushed to the conclusion that it 
was part of a long continued correspondence and not*" a 

single communication. And now — now what did she 

think ? She hardly knew ; of one thing only was she certain 
that Caspar had never been untrue to her, had never cared 
for any woman but herself. 

She was not at all sure that Mrs. Romaine would receive 
her : she knew that she had written to her in a tone that 
no woman, especially a woman like Mrs. Romaine, is likely 
to forgive ; but time, she thought, blunts the memory of 
past injuries, and if Rosalind chose to forget the past, she 
would forget it too. It was with a soft and kindly feeling, 
therefore, that Lady Alice asked for admittance at Mrs. 
Romaine^s door, and learned that Mrs. Romaine was at 
home and would see her. 

Before she had been in the drawing-room five minutes, 
it dawned on Lady Alice’s mind that there was something 
odd in her hostess’ manner and even in her appearance. 
Of course she was prepared for a change ; in the twelve 
years or more that had elapsed since they had met she her- 
self must have also changed. But, as a matter of fact. 
Lady Alice’s long, elegant figure, shining hair and delicate 
complexion showed the ravages of time far less distinctly 
than she imagined ; while Mrs. Romaine was a mere wreck 
of what she had been in her youth. During the last few 


334 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER, 


weeks, Rosalind had grown thin : her features were sharp- 
ened, her hands white and wasted : her eyes seemed too 
large for her face, and were surmounted by dark and heavy 
shadows. Lady Alice was reminded of another face that 
she had last seen relieved against the whiteness of a pillow, 
of eyes that had gleamed wildly as they looked at her, of a 
certain oddness of expression that in her own heart she 
called *^a mad look.” Yes, there was certainly a likeness 
between her and her brother Francis, and it was the sort 
of likeness that gave Lady Alice a shock. 

For a few minutes the two women talked in platitudes 
of indifferent things. Lady Alice noticed that after every 
sentence or two Mrs. Romaine let the subject drop and sat 
looking at her furtively, as if she expected something that 
did not come. Was it sympathy that she wanted ? It was 
with difficulty that Lady Alice could approach the subject. 
After a longer pause than usual, she said softly — 

You must let me tell you how sorry I am for the sorrow 
that has come upon you — upon us all.’^ 

Mrs. Romaine stared at her for a moment ; an angry 
light showed itself in her eyes. 

‘‘ You have come to tell me that? she said, with chill 
disdain. 

‘‘ I came to say so — yes,” Lady Alice answered, in her 
surprise. 

I am very much obliged to you, I am sure.’' The tone 
was almost insolent, but the woman was herself again. 
The oddness, the awkwardness of manner had passed away, 
and her old grace of bearing had come back. Even her 
beauty returned with the flush of crimson to her face and 
the lustre of her eyes. The prospect of combat brought 
back the animation and the brilliancy that she had lost. 

‘‘ There were other things I thought that you had perhaps 
come to say — repetitions of what you said to me years ago 
— before you left your husband.” 

Lady Alice rose at once. I think you had better not 
touch on that subject,” slie said gently but with dignity. I 
did not come here with any such intention. I hoped all 
that was forgotten by you — as it is by me.” 

I have not forgotten,” said Mrs. Romaine, rising also, 
and fixing her eyes on Lady Alice’s face. 

‘‘ I am sorry for it. You will allow me ” 

No, do not go : stay for a minute or two, I beg of you. 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER. 


33S 


I am not well — I said more than I meant — do not leave 
me just yet.^* She spoke now hurriedly and entreatingly. 

These extraordinary changes of tone and manner im- 
pressed Lady Alice disagreeably. And yet she hesitated : 
she did not like to carry out her purpose of leaving the 
house at once, when she had been entreated to remain. 
Looking at her, Mrs. Romaine seemed to make a great 
effort over herself, and suddenly put on the air that she 
used most to affect — the air of a woman of the world, with 
peculiarly engaging manners. 

“ Don't hurry away,’' she said. I really have some- 
thing particular to say to you. Will you listen to me for 
two minutes ? " 

‘‘Yes — if you wish it.’' 

“ I do wish it very much. You will stay ? That is kind 
of you. And I will ring for tea." 

“ No, please do not," said Lady Alice shrinking instinct- 
ively from the thought of eating and drinking in Rosalind 
Romaine's drawing-room ; “I really cannot stay long, and 
I do not drink tea so early." 

Her hostess smiled and withdrew her hand from the bell- 
handle. “ As you please," she said indifferently. “ It is 
so long since I had visitors that I almost forget how to 
entertain them. You must excuse me if I have seemed 
distrait or — or peculiar. You see I have had a great deal 
to bear." 

“ I know it, and I am very sorry,’’ said Lady Alice 
gently. 

“ You are very kind." Was there a touch of satire in 
the tone ? “ And — as you are here — why should we not 
speak of one or two matters that have troubled us some- 
times ? As two women of the world, we ought to be able 
to come to a sort of compact." 

‘‘ I do not understand you, Mrs. Romaine.” 

Rosalind laughed a little wildly. “ Of course you don’t. 
But I do not mean to talk conventionalism or common- 
place. Just for a minute or two, let us speak openly. You 
have come back to your husband — yes, I will speak, and 
you shall not interrupt ! — and you hope no doubt to be 
happy with him. Don't you know that I could wreck your 
whole happiness if I chose ? " 

The color rose in Lady Alice's face, but she looked 
clearly into the other's face as she replied — 


33<5 


BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 


My happiness with my husband is not dependent on 
anything that you may do or say. I really cannot discuss 
the subject with you, Mrs. Romaine, it is most unsuitable." 

You are very impatient," said Rosalind satirically. 
‘‘ I only want to make a bargain with you. If you will do 
something that I want, I promise you that I will go away 
from London and never speak to any of your family again." 

Lady Alice’s alarm struggled for mastery with her pride 
and her sense of the becoming, both of which told her not 
to parley with this woman. But the temptation to a 
naturally exacting nature was very great. She hesitated for 
a moment, and Mrs. Romaine went rapidly on. 

‘‘ I wrote a letter once.” The hot color mounted to her 
cheeks and brow while she was speaking. You wrote to 
me about it. But you did not send it back. You have 
that letter still.” 

Lady Alice continued to look at her steadily, but made 
no reply. 

That letter has been the curse of my life. I repented 
it as soon as it was sent — you maybe sure of that : I could 
repeat it word for word even now. Oh, no doubt you made 
the most of it — jeered at it — laughed over it with ///;;/ — 
but to me " 

“ It is the last thing I should ever have mentioned to my 
husband,” said Lady Alice, with grave disdain. ‘‘ He 
never knew that you wrote it — never saw it — never will see 
or know it from 

‘‘ Do you mean that you have kept it to yourself all 
these years ? ” 

“ I mean that I put it into the fire as soon as I had read 
it. Why are you so concerned about it? Was it worse 
than the others that you must have written — before that ? " 

I never wrote to him before.” 

They hrced each other with mutual suspicion in their 
eyes. Lady Alice had forgotten her proud reserve : she 
wanted to know the truth at last. 

I will acknowledge," she said, that I believed that 
you had written other letters — of a somewhat similar kind 
— to Mr. Brooke. I was angry and disgusted : it was that 
which formed one of my reasons for leaving him years ago. 
But I have come to a better mind since then. I do not 
care what you wrote, what you said, or what you did : I 
believe that my husband is a good man and I love him. I 


BROOKFJS DAUGHTER. 


337 


have come back to him, and shall never leave him again. 
You can do me no harm now.” 

Mrs. Romaine laughed mockingly. Can I not ? ” she 
said. Do you know that he came to me within an hour 
after his release? Do you know that he asked me to go 
away with him to Spain, where we could be safe and happy 
together ? What do you say to that ? ” 

I say this,^’ cried Lady Alice, almost violently, “ that 
I do not believe a word of it.’’ She drew herself to her full 
height and turned to leave 'the room. Then she looked at 
Rosalind and spoke in a gentler tone. I am sorry for 
you,” she said. But your suffering is partly your own 
fault. What right had you to think of winning my husband’s 
heart away from me? You have not succeeded, although 
you have done your best to make us miserable. I have 
never spoken of you to him — never ; but now, when I go 
home, I shall go straight to him and tell him all that you 
have said to me, and I shall know very well whether what 
you say is false or true.” 

She left the room proudly and firmly, unheeding of the 
mocking laugh that Rosalind sent after her. She let herself 
out into the street and walked straight back to her home. 
Caspar was out : she could not go to him immediately, as 
she had said that she would do. She went to her room and 
lay down upon the bed, feeling strangely tired and weak. 
In spite of her haughty rebuttal of the charge against her 
husband, she was wounded and oppressed by it. And as 
the time went on, she felt more and more the difficulty of 
telling him her story, of asking him to clear himself. How 
could she question him without seeming to doubt? 

She fretted herself until a headache came on, and she 
was unable to go down to dinner. Lesley brought her up 
a cup of tea, but her mother refused her company. ‘‘ I 
shall be better alone,” she said. Has your father come 
in yet ? Isn’t he very late ? ” 

It was nearly ten o’clock when Mr. Brooke came in_, and, 
hearing that he had been asked for, made his way to his 
wife’s room. He bent over her tenderly, asking her how 
she felt ; and she put one hand up to his rough cheek, 
without answering. 

“ What has made your head ache, my darling ? ” he asked. 
Caspar, I have been to see Mrs. Romaine.” 

She felt a sort of start or quiver go through him at the 

22 


338 


BROOKE^S DAUGHTER, 


name. He put his lips softly to her forehead before he 
spoke. ‘‘ Well ! ” he said, a little dryly. 

“ Did you — did she ” 

Then she broke down, and sobbed a little with her face 
against her husband’s breast. Caspar’s breath grew shorter 
— a sign of excitement with him — but for a time he waited 
quietly and would not speak. He could not all at once 
make up his mind what to say. 

“ Alice,” he said at last, ‘‘ if you ask me questions I 
suppose I must answer them in.one way or another. But 
— I think I had rather you did not.” He felt that every 
nerve was strained in self-control as she listened to liim. 
“ Mrs. Romaine,” he went on deliberately, “ is not a 
woman that I like — or — respect. I would very much pre- 
fer not to talk about her,” 

“ I must tell you just one thing,’* she whispered, it was 
my feeling about her — my jealousy of her — that made me 
leave you — twelve years ago.” 

She had surprised him now. ‘‘Alice! Impossible,” he 
said. “ Why, my poor girl, there was not the slightest reason. 
I can most solemnly swear to you, Alice, that I never 
had any other feeling for ATrs. Romaine than that of ordi- 
nary friendship. My dear, will you never believe that you 
have always been the one woman in all the world for me ? ” 

“ Forgive me, Caspar,” she murmured, “I do believe 
it now.” 

At the same hour, a haggard and despairing woman 
raised herself from the floor where she had lain for many 
weary hours, trying by passionate tears and cries and out- 
bursts of unavailing lamentation to exhaust or stifle the 
anguish which seemed to have reached its most intolerable 
point. Her robes were soiled and crushed, her hair was 
dishevelled, her eyes were red with weeping; and, as she 
rose, she wrung her hands together and then raised them 
in appeal to the God whom she had so long forgotten and 
forsaken. 

“ Oh, my God,” she cried, “ how can I bear it ? All 
that I do is useless. I may lie and cheat and plot as much 
as I like, but all my schemes are in vain. I cannot hurt 
her, as she said: I cannot punish him: I have no power 
left. No power, no beauty, no will 1 Am I losing my 
senses, too, like Francis?” She shuddered at the thought. 
“ Perhaps I am going mad — they have driven me mad. 


BROOKE^ S DAUGHTER, 


339 


Caspar Brooke and his wife, between them — mad, mad, 
mad! — Oh, God,” she said, with a long shivering sigh, 

Oh, God, avert that doom! Not that punishment of all 
others, for mercy’s sake ! ” 

She looked up and down her dimly lighted room with an 
expression upon her face of horror and unrest, which bore 
some resemblance to the look of one whose intellect was 
becoming unhinged. It seemed as if she were afraid that 
something might leap out upon her from the darkness, or 
as if goblin voices might at any moment mutter in her ear. 
For a long time she stood motionless in the middle of the 
room, lier eyes staring, her hands hanging at her sides. 
Then she moved slowly to a writing-table, took a sheet of 
paper and a pen, and wrote a few lines. When she had 
finished she enclosed the sheet in an envelope, and ad- 
dressed it to Lady Alice Brooke. And when that was done 
she rang the bell and sent the letter to the post. Then she 
nodded and smiled strangely to herself. 

Perhaps that will atone,” she murmured vaguely. 

And perhaps God will not take away my reason, after 
all.” 

And then she began to fumble among the things upon 
'her dressing-table for the little bottle that contained her 
nightly sleeping draught. 

Mrs. Romaine’s letter was brought to Lady Alice before 
she rose next morning. It contained these words : — 

‘‘ I told you what was not true to-day. Your husband 
never asked me to go away with him — he never cared for 
me. I loved him, that was all. His carelessness drove 
me mad — I tried to revenge myself on him by making you 
suffer. But you would not believe me, and you were 
right. Pity me if you can, and pray for me. 

Rosalind Romaine.” 

Ah, poor soul 1 ” thought Alice Brooke, her eyes filling 
with tears. “ I do pity her — I do, with all my heart. God 
help her 1 ” 

And she said those words again — useless as they might 
be — when, by and by, a messenger came hurrying to the 
house with the news that Mrs. Romaine had been found 
dead that morning — dead, from an overdose of the chloral 
which she kept beside her for sleeplessness. And so the 


340 


BROCKETS DAUGHTER. 


life of false aims and perverted longings came to its 
appointed end. 

There was never a cloud on Alice Brooke’s domestic 
happiness, never a shadow of distrust between her and her 
husband, after this. For some little time they changed 
their mode of life — giving up the house in Bloomsbury and 
spending long, blissful months in Italy and the Tyrol. It 
was like another honeymoon. And when tliey returned to 
London, Caspar took a house in a sunnier and pleasanter 
region than Upper Woburn Place, but not so far away as 
to prevent him from visiting the Macclesfield Club on Sun- 
days, and having a chat with Jim Gregson and his other 
workman friends. These workmen and their wives came 
also in their turn to Mr. Brooke^s abode, where there was 
not only a gentle and gracious lady to preside at the table 
(where twelve especially valued 'silver spoons always held 
a place of honor), but a very remarkable baby in the nur- 
sery; and it was Mr. Brooke’s continual regret that he had 
not insisted on naming his son and heir Macclesfield, after 
the workmen's buildings, instead of the more common- 
place Maurice, after Maurice Kenyon. But Maurice and 
Lesley returned the compliment by calling their eldest 
child Caspar, although Lesley did say saucily that she 
thought it a very ugly name. 

Francis Trent was in a lunatic asylum, ‘’at Her Majesty’s 
pleasure.” His wife was allowed to see him now and 
then ; and on this account she would not leave England, 
as some of her friends urged her to do, but occupied her- 
self with needlework and some kind of district visiting 
among the poor. The Brookes and the Kenyons were 
both exceedingly kind to her, and would have been kinder 
if she had felt it possible to accept ‘‘ their kindness ” ; but, 
although she cherished in secret a strong affection for 
Lesley, she was too much ashamed of her past conduct 
ever to present herself to them again. She could but live 
and work in silence, until one of the two great healers, 
Time or Death, should soothe the bitterness of her heart 
away. ^ 

And Ethel ? — Well, Mrs. Harry Duchesne knows more 
about Ethel than I do, and I shall be happy to refer you 
to her. 


THE END. 


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and entertaining English. 

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106. XLbC IDiCOmte^g • - By Esme Stuart 

Is a bright and lively novel, full of action and incident, with a plot 
bordering slight’y on the romantic, and with a pretty comedy interest 
that at once suggests a dramatic setting of the story . — Boston Gazette ^ 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


t07> B t'evereuD Gentleman - By j. Maclaren Cobban 

J. Maclaren Cobban has issued, through the Lovell publishing 
house, a volume entitled “ A Reverend Gentleman ” which has 
already appeared serially in England. From the same house he 
issued his very successful work entitled “ Master of His Fate,” 
which met with a wide sale and was much admired for its 
originality. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


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LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


10S> IRotea from tbe *1RCV06^ - - By James Payn 

Few little books furnish so much genuine entertainment, com 
bined with shrewd and witty observation, as will be found in 
Mr. Payn’s “Notes from the ‘ News.’ ” — London Daily News. 

It is just the book to be taken up when one has two or three 
minutes to fill. It is full of good stories and interesting facts. — 
London Speaker. 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

XLbC Ikceper of tbe - By F. W. Robinson 

“ The Keeper of the Keys ” does not fall behind its numerous 
predecessors. There is plenty of humor in the the book as well as 
pathos . — London Athenoeum. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

110» TLbC ScuDamores - By F. C. Philips and C. J. Wills 

F. C. Philips, whose “ As in a Looking-glass ” met with so 
large a sale, has recently published, through the John W. Lovell 
Co., by special arrangement, a work entitled “ The Scudamores,” 
which was written in colaboration with C. J. Wills, with whom he 
was also a joint author of “The Fatal Phryne,” which was one of 
the earliest and best numbers of the International Series. He has 
also issued by the same house “ Margaret Byng,” which is said to 
be quite up to his usual standard. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

IIU Zbc Contcseiom of a TliQlOman - By Mabel Collins 

The many admirers of Miss Collins’ former works entitled 
“The Blossom and the Fruit,” “The Idyl of the White Lotus,” 
“ Light on the Path,” and “ Through the Gates of Gold,” will wel- 
come this new departure in the line of authorship. 

The author has told this woman’s story so vividly that the 
reader will find difficulty in disassociating its relation from the 
actual existence of the writer. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. N. Y. 


LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 




11 2, Sowing tbC Tlllltn5 - - By E. Lynn Linton 

It will be read with interest by many, as the descriptions are 
graphic and much of the conversation is smart and sometimes 
brilliant. On the whole, the book is a satisfactory contribution to 
the library of fiction. — Sunday News^ Detroit. 

tLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

11 3» ^ /ll^arhe^ JRail - - By Ada Cambridge 

She gives promise of taking a high place among English 
novelists. The book is bright and unconventional, and there is no 
denying its power. — Albany Argus, 

Ada Cambridge gives us something to think of in her book 
very differently, no doubt, according to our different natures. 
Herein the book differs from most novels, which avoid all food for 
reflection. The descriptions both of still and active life are true.— 
London Athenceum, 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

114. JRar^aret - - - -By F. C. Philips 

“ Margaret Byng ” will find its admirers among the class who 
gave cordial welcome to “As in a Looking-Glass ” and “Young 
Mr. Ainslie’s Courtship,” former popular works by this author. 
The story opens in a smart little house in South Street Park Lane, 
London, and contains many of the elements which united make a 
refreshing romance in which the good are very good and the bad 
are very bad indeed. — Kansas City Journal, 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

1 15. yot 0nc anP tbe - By m. Betham-edwards 

“ For One and the World” is the latest work from the pen of 
M. Betham-Edwards. This lady has the masterful touch of an 
erudite man, with the keen, intuitive, womanly perceptions of her 
sex. The two combined make her work admirably instructive, 
while never losing their completeness of plot and interest. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER. COVER, 50 CENTS. 


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LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


It6> pnnce 60 Sunsblne • By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 

This last novel by this popular authoress, among the recent 
issues in Lovell’s International Series, fully sustains the character 
of this, the most popular series of novels ever published. 

Mrs. Riddell is a very clever woman, and she puts “brains” into 
all her work. “ Princess Sunshine” is full of attractiveness. The 
heroine is charming and the family life of the Gifford’s is capitally 
sketched . — Charleston News, 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

1 1 7> Sloane Square Scandal - - By Annie Thomas 

She tells a trivial story very well, and draws men and women 
of the purely conventional sort with considerable skill . — NewSf 
Charleston. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

1 1 8> TOe TFlIabt Ot tbe 3rD Tlllt. - By H. E. Wood 

An exceedingly interesting story of London life, with strongly 
marked and well drawn characters, and pleasing dialogue, which, 
combined with the interest of a well laid plot, make it one of the 
best of recent novels. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

(Slutte Bnotber Storig - • by jean Ingelow 

It is not generally known that Jean Ingelow, whose poetry has 
found an echoing chord in almost every heart among the English- 
speaking race, is still living in England, a delightful, white-haired 
old lady, who is still engaged in literary pursuits. The John W. 
Lovell Co. have issued, by special arrangement with her, a volume 
entitled “ Quite Another Story,” the tone of which is quite in accord 
with her delightful poems, and which must be read to be thor 
oughly appreciated. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, N. Y, 


LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


120. l)eart Of (3oI^ - - - By L. T. Meade 

Adaptibility and sympathy are two prominent qualities of L. T. 
Meade, the author of this story. — Literary World. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

121. ^be THHorD anP zhe TOitll • By James Payn 

The characters are well drawn, the conversations are vivacious. 
— Literary World. 

CLOTH, $1,00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS 

1 22. Dump^ - • " - By Mrs. Louisa Parr 

A healthy, interesting and well-told story, easy to read and 
belongs to a class of which we find only too few of among the 
novels of the present day. 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

123. Tlbc .IBlach :SBox /IRurOcr 

By The Man Who Discovered the Murderer 

A very good detective story, simply and pleasingly told. — New 
Bedfjord Journal. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, $0 CENTS. 


124. ^be (3reat /IRill Street By Adeline Sergeant 

“The Great Mill St. Mystery,” by Adeline Sergeant, is a story 
which holds the reader’s interest until the end, a sort of old-fash- 
ioned story with an elaborate plot, plenty of incident and entertain- 
ing conversation. — Omaha Excelsior. 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

125. ^Between xife anP 2)catb - By Frank Barrett 

Barrett’s reputation as a writer of stories is taking first rank. 
Ilis stories are exciting and thoroughly original. — St. Louis Republic, 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


UNITED STATES HOOK COMPANY, PUBLISERS, N. Y, 


LOVELI/S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


I 126. 1Rame an& 3Fame 

I By Adeline Sergeant and Ewing Lester 

1 The authors of ** Name and Fame” have endeavored with 

more success than might have been expected, to justify a bold step 
I across conventional borders. There is a good deal that is readable 
in the book . — London Athenceum^ 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

127. 2)rama8 of 3L(fe - • By George R. Sims 

The man of the London Referee has made himself famous 
for story-telling, both in prose and verse. His name is a guaranty 
of good reading. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

12 s. XoVCr Ot fftfCtlD 7 • By Rosa Nouchette Carey 

Rosa Nouchette Carey cannot be dull if she tries, or, at any 
event, she never tries. Her novels make no pretense to deep pur- 
pose, and ** Lover or Friend ” is a simple love story told with plenty 
of liveliness . — Charleston News, 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

129. 3amOU6 or Ifnfamoilg • • By Bertha TgoMAS 

An unusually well told tale with many original and strongly de- 
fined characters which will place it in the front rank of modern fiction. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

130. XLbC IbOUgC of IballiWCU • By Mrs. Henry Wood 

More than one million copies of books by the author of ** East 
Lynne ” have been sold, and this last one from her pen will fully 
keep up the average. 

The House of Halliwell ” was written many years ago, but 
never published. It differs somewhat in style from the author’s 
subsequent work, but every page bears the unmistakable impress 
of the author of “ East Lynne.” 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, N. Y. 


LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


t31^ TRutKno mb Qtbcv Storteg - - By Ouida 

The workmanship is excellent throughout, and the stories have 
the positive charms of simple grace and pathos . — Manchester 
Examiner* 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

132» Rhoda Broughton 

This most popular author has produced an old-fashioned 
English society novel full of incident and interest. Everyone will 
want to read it a second time. 

The book is charming, full of esprit^ and reveals the master in 
the handling of a theme, which, in other hands, would be hardly 
possible. It is a book that can safely be recommended to lovers of 
good light literature , — Home Journal* 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, $0 CENTS. 

133, JKagil anP Bnnette • • By B. l. Farjeon 

The title of the Dickens of to-day seems to be very generally 
conceded by the literary critics to Farjeon. His readers cannot 
fail to be impressed with the similarity in characters and style. 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

134, XLbC Demoniac - - By Walter Besant 

A charming tale of constancy which irresistibly draws out our 
deepest sympathy. One of those perfect pictures of a true woman’s 
lova which few can conjure up more cleverly than Mr. Besant. — 
Temperance Record* 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, $0 CENTS. 

135, JSrave Ibeart an^ ^rue - By Florence Marryat 

The very name of Marryat seems to have become associated 
with reading matter of strong literary merit.— Journalist. 

“ Brave Heart and True ” is Florence Marryat’s last and one of 
her best novels . — Denver News* 

ILOTH, $I.eo. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. PUBLISHERS. N. Y. 


LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


136> /Bbau^e’e /Iftanta - By Geo. Manville Fenn 

A clever and brightly written novel with a refreshing go about 
it. Its sprightliness is a welcome change from the solemnity, 
yearning and dreariness of some much more high-toned and more 
truly tragic tales. — Glasgow Herald, 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

137. .flbarcia • - • - By W. E. Norris 

Mr. Norris has the light touch of Thackeray, who guides us 
through three or four generations as gracefully as a well-bred man 
might point out the portraits of his ancestors in the family picture 
gallery. — Quarterly Review, 

In portraiture of character and delicate finish of detail, W. E. 
Norris takes high rank among the novelists of the day. — Boston 
Globe, 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 


138. IKHOtmWOO^ - • - By Marie Corelli 

A story of absinthe and absintheurs, a grim, realistic drama. — 
Athenceuni, 

The reader is whirled about like a leaflet amid lurid flashes 
and wild gusts of maddened invective, almost blinded by the efforts 
he or she makes, to realize the tempest which rages through the 
man possessed of the liquid fire. — Kensington Society, 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 


139. Ubc Ibonorable • - ByL.t. Meads 

Delightfully fresh and winning. — Scottsman, 

What we want is a vivid portraiture of character and broad 
and wholesome lessons about life. These Mrs. Meade gives us.— 
Spectator, 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER, 50 CENTS. 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. N. Y. 


LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


140. a JSltter Birtbriflbt By Dora Russell 

“It is well written, clever in its character drawing, and interest- 
ii'g generally.” — Boston Saturday Gazette. 

“ Miss Russell does not disappoint those readers who like 
enough events, jealousies, etc., to make the chapters exciting. — 
Portland Press. 

CLOTH, $1.00 ; PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

141. B 5)oubIe 1k?tot> By George Manville Fenn 

“ Mr. Fenn is easily in the front rank cf English novelists, and 
there is a freshness and breeziness about his stories that always gain 
for them many and delighted readers.” — Albany Argus. 

CLOTH, $1.00; PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

142> B IbiD^en .lfoe ... By g. a. Henty 

“ The works of this author are so well known that it is unneces- 
sary to say anything in regard to his reputation which is well 
established.” — Detroit Adzertiser, 

CLOTH, $I.CO; PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

14r^. Ulrttb - - - - By S. Baring-Gould 

“ The author’s wealth of illustration and anecdote is wonder- 
ful.” — Charleston N’ews, 

CLOTH, $1.00; PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

144. .16roohe^0 Bailflbter - - - By A. Sergeant 

Adeline Sergeant has established for herself an enviable repu- 
tation as the writer of novels which are worth while. Her keen 
insight into human nature, and remarkable easy flow of language in 
depicting the same, has made her one of the most saleable of 
English novelists. 

CLOTH, $I.CO; PAPER, 50 CENTS. 

145. % /ibint of /Iftonev? - By George Manville Fenn 

Fenn’s novels are all interesting, the characters are original and 
the local coloring is always correct. 

“ Everything Mr. Fenn writes is interesting.” — Pittsburgh Dis- 
patch. 

CLOTH, $I.CX>; PAPER, 50 CENTS. 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, N. Y. 


LOVELL'S International series— Continued 


No. Cts. 

65. The Fiioi op Girdlestone. 

A. Conan Doyle 50 

66. In Her Earliest Youth. 

Tasma 50 

6?. The Lady Egeria. J. B. 

Harwood 50 

OS. A True Friend. A. Ser^^eant 50 

69. The Little Chatelaine. The 

Earl of Desart 50 

70. CiiiLDiiEN OP To-Morrow. 

William Sharp 30 

71. The Haunted Fountain and 

Hetty’s Revenge. K. S. 
Macquoid 30 

72. A Daughter’s Sacripice. F. 

C. Philips and P. Fendall. . . 50 

73. Hauntings. Vernon Lee.... 50 

74. A Smuggler’s Secret. F. 

Barrett 50 

75. Kestell OF Greystone. Es- 

me Stuart 50 

70. The Talking Image of Urur. 

Franz Hartmann, M.D 50 

77. A Scarlet Sin. F. Marryat.. 50 

78. By Order op the Czar. 

•Toseph Hatton 50 

79. The Sin op Joost Avelingh. 

Maarten Maartens 50 

80. A Born Coquette. “ The 

Duchess” 50 

81. The Burnt Million. J. Payn 50 

82. A Woman’s Heart. Mrs. 

Alexander 50 

83. Syri-in. Ouida 50 

84. The Rival Princess. Justin 

McCarthy and Mrs. C. Praed 50 

85. Bmndfold. F Marryat 50 

86. The Parting op the Ways. 

M. Betham-Ed wards 50 

87. The Failure op Elisabeth. 

E. Frances Poynter 50 

88. Eli’s Children. George 

Manville Fenn 50 


89. The Bishops’ Bible. David 

C. Murray and H. Hermann 50 

90. April’s Lady. “The Duchess” 50 

91. Violet Vyvian, M. F. H. May 

Crommelin 50 

92. A Woman op the World. F. 

Mabel Robinson 50 

93. The Baffled Conspirators. 

W. E Norris 50 

94. Strange Crimes. W. Westall 50 

95. Dishonored. Theo. Gift 50 

96. The Mysterv^ op M. Felix. 

B. L. Far jeon 50 

97. With Essex in Ireland. 

Hon. Emily Lawless 50 

98. Soldiers Three and Other 

Stories. Rudyard Kipling 50 

99. Whose was the Hand? M. E. 

Braddon 50 

100. The Blind Musician. Step- 

niak and William Westall 50 

101. The House on the Scar. 

Bertha Thomas 50 

102. The Wages OP Sin. L. Malet 50 

103. The Pha.ntom ’Rickshaw. 

Rudyard Kipling 50 

104. The Love of a Lady. Annie 

Thomas 50 


No. Cts. 

105. How Came He Dead? J. 

Fitzgera d Molloy 50 

106. The VicOiMTE’s Bride. Esme 

Stuart 50 

107. A Reverend Gentleman. 

J. Madar- n Cobban 50 

108. Notes from the ‘News.’ 

James Payn 50 

109. The Keeper op the Keys. 

F. W. Robinson 50 

110. The Scudamores. F. C. 

Philips and C. J. Weills 50 

111. The Confessions of< a 

Woman. Mabel Collins. . 50 

112. Sowing THE Wind. F. Lynn 

Linton 50 

114. Margaret Byng. F. C. 

Philips 50 

115. For One and the World. 

M. Betham-Ed wards 50 

116. Princess Sunshine. Mrs. J. 

H. Riddell 50 

117. Sloane Square Scandal. 

Annie Thomas 50 

118. The Night op the 3d Ult. 

H. F. Wood 50 

119. Quite Another Story'. 

Jean Ingelow 50 

120. Heart OF Gold. L T. Meade 50 

121. The Word and the Will. 

James Payn 50 

122. Dumps. Mrs. Louisa Parr. . 50 

123. The Black Box Murder. 

By the man who discovered 
the murderer 50 

124. The Great Mill St. Mys- 

tery. Adeline Sergeant 50 

125. Between Life and Death. 

Frank Barrett 50 

126. Name and Fame. Adeline 

Sergeant and Ewing Lester 50 

127. Dramas of Life. G. R. 

Sims 50 

128. Lover or Friend? Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 50 

129. Famous or Infamous. Ber- 

tha Thomas 50 

130. The House of Halliwell. 

]\Irs. Henry Wood 50 

131. Ruffino. Ouida 50 

132. Alas 1 Rhod a Broughton. . . 50 

133. Basil and Annette. B. L. 

Farjeon 50 

134. The Demoniac. W. Besant 50 

135. Brave Heart and True. 

Florence Marrvat 50 

136. Lady Maude’s Mania. G. 

Manville Fenn 50 

137. Marcia. W. E. Norris 50 

188. Wormwood. Marie Corelli. 50 

139. The Honorable Miss. L. 

T. Meade 50 

140. A BitterBirthright. Dora 

Russell 50 

141. A Double Knot. G. M Fenn 50 

142. A Hidden Foe. G A Henty 50 

143. XJrith. S. Baring-Gould. . . 50 

144. Gray'spoint. Ml’S. J. H. 50 

Riddell 50 

145. A Mint op Money'. G. M. 50 

Fenn 50 


COLGATES 


SOAPS & 
PERFUMES 


To Americans it is a strange sight to see a large field planted with 
rose bushes, in long, straight rows, very much as corn is cultivated in 
this country. 

Yet there are hundreds of fields in Southern France, like the one 
shown in the above picture, which bear no less than 180,000 lbs, or 90 
tons of roses each year, for Colgate & Co. , ^ 

As the perfume of a flower is more fragrant in the early morning, 
great care is exercised to secure the roses from only those farmers who 
gather their flowers early in the morning, before the dew has dried from 
the leaves, and the hot sun drawn off the perfume. 

It is this attention to the minutest detail in obtaining only the 
choicest kind of perfume, and the best of materials, which has secured for 
Colgate & Co. the highest, awards at World Expositions, and gives un- 
rivalled superiority to their Soaps and Perfumes, the favorite of which 

CASHMERE BOUQUET. 

■ * ' ? 53 



















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